


Pilot

by Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer



Series: Loving Father, Prodigal Children [1]
Category: Prodigal Son (TV 2019)
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Angst, BAMF Malcolm Bright, Blood and Gore, Blood and Injury, Brother-Sister Relationships, Brothers, Canon-Typical Violence, Dismemberment, Drama, Drug Use, Electrocution, Father-Son Relationship, Flashbacks, Gen, Hallucinations, Illusions, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Implied/Referenced Murder, Love/Hate, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell Friendship, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel Friendship, Malcolm Bright Is Called Malcolm Whitly, Malcolm Whitly Is An Axe Wielding Maniac, Murder, Parent Martin Whitly, Parental Gil Arroyo, Pass it on, Platonic Love/Hate Relationship, Protective Malcolm Bright, Serial Killers, Violence, Young Ainsley Whitly, Young Malcolm Bright, adoptive brothers, also, idk why i keep doing this--, sorry i switched from present tense to past tense
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-07
Updated: 2021-02-13
Packaged: 2021-03-12 03:55:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 5
Words: 21,844
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29254053
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer/pseuds/Lucigoosey_The_Lightbringer
Summary: "Next time you call someone crazy-" He holds the gun up and clicks it down onto the table. Everyone except him flinches at the sound, while he only chuckles, "ask for their gun first."
Relationships: Ainsley Whitly & Henry Whitly, Ainsley Whitly & Martin Whitly, Dani Powell & JT Tarmel, Gil Arroyo & Dani Powell, Gil Arroyo & JT Tarmel, Gil Arroyo & Malcolm Bright, Malcolm Bright & Ainsley Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Claude Springer, Malcolm Bright & Dani Powell, Malcolm Bright & Edrisa Tanaka, Malcolm Bright & Henry Whitly, Malcolm Bright & JT Tarmel, Malcolm Bright & Jessica Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Martin Whitly, Malcolm Bright & Sunshine the Bird
Series: Loving Father, Prodigal Children [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2148096
Comments: 16
Kudos: 52





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Nobody:  
> My partner and I: *casually rewrites Prodigal Son with an AU idea we had*
> 
> But no seriously. Welcome to an AU we spontaneously thought of while roleplaying, in which Malcolm and Ainsley discovered the girl in the box together, and Martin wasn't arrested early on.   
> Hope you all enjoy!

" _Ainsley?" Malcolm ventures forward, eyes fixed on his sister's back. "What're you doing up?"_

_Ainsley doesn't respond immediately. With her back to him, Malcolm can't see her expression, but she seems frozen, rigid, tense. Concern propels him forward further, eyes flicking quickly down to the open box in front of her before his eyes lift back up to Ainsley again. "Ainsley?" He calls once more, and his baby sister twitches and snaps her head around to look back at him. The wide-eyed expression on her face stills him for a second, concern mixing with terror in his chest, shredding his gut apart like he was being forced through a cheese grater. His grip on the cup in his hand tightens for a second, shooting a quick, nervous glance over his shoulder. His father wasn't going to be happy to find them in here. They're not allowed in the basement._

_But something had spooked his little sister._

_(Which isn't really an easy feat. He would know.)_

" _Mal," Ainsley whines, turning to face him. "I'ssa girl…"_

_Ah, yeah, it's set in stone. Malcolm is too curious (and concerned, of course) to let this go. With a puzzled look in his sister's direction, he steadies his grip on the cup and dares to move closer. Ainsley manages to look a little panicked at his approach, however. "No, no, no, don' look-!"_

" _Shh," Malcolm shushes her, still worried about being caught. "It's okay, Ainsley. Look, it's dark. I'm sure whatever you saw was just…" He stops, looking down into the box, and freezes._

" _... was just…"_

 _Skin. Hair. Blood, even. His chest shudders horribly when he breathes in again, and the air doesn't leave his lungs again after that. He holds it tight, trapped there for a second as he stares, almost afraid that when he breathes out again he won't be able to breathe back in. Afraid that if he lets his breath out, it'll come out in a scream. So he doesn't move his lips, doesn't utter a sound, just stares down at the box - at the_ _ **girl**_ _in the box - as his sister presses closer to him._

" _I told you," she sounds accusing. Malcolm's head whirls. "I told you-"_

" _Kids?"_

_Malcolm flinches, the cup slipping from his hand at once. It clatters to the floor, liquid spilling. His hand shakes beyond his control, an awful tremor that he can't stop, and he doesn't try to. Upon hearing their father's voice, Ainsley has a much different reaction; she whirls around, wide-eyed almost with relief, and lets out a quiet cry of "Daddy!" and throws herself forward._

" _Heyyyyy, baby…" Martin sounds concerned, worried, but there's something else there, too. Something understanding. Malcolm breathes out, finally, chest tight, and turns to face them._

_Martin looks at him for a long moment, holding Ainsley close to him, and sighs._

" _Well," he begins lightly, "looks like I've got some stories to tell. Close the box."_

 _Malcolm stares at him for a while, searching his father's face carefully. He's not stupid by any means. With a heavy feeling in the pit of his stomach, he realizes he doesn't need a story - he knows exactly what's going on here, and there's too many conflicted emotions raging in his chest right then to make sense of. There's confusion, and fear, and betrayal, realizing that his father is even capable of something like this, that there's a girl in a box, probably_ _**dead** _ _, and Martin had put her there. Martin had killed her. Who knew what else he'd done? Who else he…_

 _Then he looks down at Ainsley, sobbing in Martin's arms, face buried into his chest. He watches the way Martin's arms fold around her, whispering softly and comfortingly in her ear, planting kisses on her head, and he doesn't understand anymore. He doesn't understand what's real. This can't be real. This girl, the box, the blood, that can't be real. There has to be_ _**something** _ _._

_There has to be an explanation._

_Malcolm loves his father._

_He loves his family._

_So with one last glance at Martin, wary and torn but still hopeful that this - whatever_ _ **this**_ _is - isn't what he_ _ **thinks**_ _, he turns away, adamantly not looking inside again, and closes the box._

* * *

"Our suspect's in there, Special Agent."

Malcolm doesn't respond immediately. Eyes on the sky, the only thing he cares for right then is the sound of the cicadas chirping. Always such a pleasant sound, one he never gets sick of. They're comforting, soothing. With a smile playing on his lips, he recognizes that his own sentiment is probably echoed by the man just ahead of them, tucked away inside the abandoned slaughterhouse that Malcolm knows they're about to bust into in just a few minutes. Right now, however, is reserved for just a second of relaxation, a moment to get his head together. Of course, he's aware of how little time they have, but he's not too worried about it. Taking in a breath, enjoying the feeling of the cool air in his lungs, he manages a faint smile.

"They're amazing," he murmurs. The Sheriff looks back at him, confused and a little concerned, but not concerned for him - more like 'concerned he's losing his mind' concerned. His smile widens the tiniest bit, lowering his gaze from the sky. "The cicadas," he clarifies, though it probably doesn't help his case too much. "It mimics a predator's own sounds. They think they're about to eat one of their own…" Malcolm chuckles, and smirks. "Which is generally frowned upon. Our killer feels safe when he hears it." Finally, he lets his gaze stray to the building ahead.

The Sheriff offers him a dubious look and shakes his head, stepping closer but staying low, out of sight. Malcolm doesn't bother. Their killer isn't going to be venturing outside right now.

"Special Agent," the Sheriff starts warningly, "Claude Springer's in there and he's got hostages. We need to bring out a negotiator." At this, Malcolm snorts a little. A negotiator. This Sheriff had been getting on his nerves for a while now, but nothing irked him quite like the feeling of being underestimated. And if they didn't know he could _negotiate_ just fine on his own, then honestly…

"This isn't a hostage situation," he corrects, eyes on the building. "He's killing those backpackers tonight. Using the cicadas to drown out his work…" He smirks, if only for a second, and then lets the expression drop into something a little more serious, a little more firm. "We're going in now."

The Sheriff hisses in response. "What if your profile's wrong?"

Malcolm's quick to snap his gaze back to him at that, scrutinizing him with a hint of disbelief in his gaze. His profile? Wrong? Well, it's not impossible - though, this time, yes, it is. He'd studied this case over and over and over again. Serial killers were his specialty. He'd been wrong before, but never when he dedicated this much time and thought to a case - okay, maybe sometimes even then. But that's not the point. The Sheriff is worried, he can tell… but he's not worried about the people in the abandoned building. He's not worried about the innocent victims about to be butchered. This is an unfamiliar situation for him; he's never faced a serial killer.

A cold smile curls at Malcolm's lips at the realization, and he spares the Sheriff an amused look before allowing it to relax into something, admittedly, a bit more contemptuous. He's not going to pretend he's fond of the guy. "I get it. You're scared. You've never worked a case like this - a serial killer. They freak people out… believe me, I know." He pauses, only for a moment, and watches the Sheriff's expression briefly flicker out into an understanding one. He watches for a moment, calm as ever, before going on, "what's worse is that election that's coming up."

The Sheriff freezes; Malcolm has him by the jewels. He knows it. He laughs a little, and looks away again. "Bad timing for you. People in town are scared; you're gonna lose." He hums, reaching up to run his fingers through his hair, and curls his lips back into another cold smile.

"But that's not why you're really afraid. It's what comes after. When you're done. After twenty years, you're scared of the question." He pauses, briefly. "Who are you without the badge?"

The Sheriff is frozen, wide-eyed, staring at him.

Malcolm smirks, eyes on the building, and nods.

"Wanna keep it?" He shifts, a step forward, and flicks his gaze to the side. "Do _exactly_ as I say."

Not waiting for a response, he presses forward. The others scramble to keep up as he enters.

The inside of the slaughterhouse is like a horror movie. Nothing Malcolm hasn't seen before; he looks on in silent fascination as he moves forward with the other two SWAT officers, letting them slip past him. Voices whisper back and forth between their radios, and Malcolm's, but he doesn't particularly care. He's quiet, unresponsive, only moving - until, at least, he hears footsteps that are definitely not coming from the other two. Slowing to a stop, he spares a quick glance ahead before turning in the direction he'd heard the movement from, narrowing his eyes silently as he steps closer to the room. With a flicker of curiosity, he notices that the floor has been stripped.

Cautious with every step, he brings himself forward across the floor carefully, one foot after the other. His gun is heavy in his hand, but his finger doesn't twitch toward the trigger just yet.

_He remembers one of the more memorable times he'd had a gun in his hand-_

Not now, Malcolm.

The floor creaks a little under his feet as he takes another step. There's a door just ahead of him - is that where the noise was coming from? Finally, he shifts his grip on the gun to hold it properly, curling a finger cautiously around the trigger and taking another cautious step forward.

Another creak. This one, however, comes from behind him.

Malcolm holds his breath, staring blankly ahead of him for a moment. He's made a mistake.

His heart stutters and pounds a little faster. Despite the situation he's in, a rush of excitement courses through his veins, a flare of adrenaline. He closes his eyes, finally takes a breath and counts down from five before he turns around, bracing himself for whatever he might see. Honestly, he expected to be staring down the barrel of a gun. Or even, maybe, face to face with a blade. He's not expecting to see a spark of blue, to hear electricity crackling when he turns.

But he does.

And he feels the pain, even through his vest, when that electricity hits him. The force knocks him off his feet, sends him flying backwards, his pistol dropping and skidding across the floor.

He hits the floor, and the floor disappears.

And he's falling.

And he hits.

And everything blacks out.

* * *

" _Kids…"_

 _Lights flashing, sirens whirring. His father is in handcuffs, several feet away from where Malcolm stands beside his sister. At fourteen years old, she stands equal height with Malcolm - though that could very well be the added height of her heels. Her expression is unreadable, eyes locked on their father. Malcolm can't take his eyes off of Martin's panicked face, himself, and he can't stifle the anger that churns in his gut when his father's eyes meet his own. He can't stifle the fury he feels, looking up at the officer behind him, who was in the process of pulling Martin's hands behind his back to fasten a fair of handcuffs around his wrists. He's angry - he's_ _**furious.** _

" _Listen to me," Martin calls out to them insistently, and Malcolm's gaze snaps back down to him, eyebrows furrowing faintly. He ventures forward along with Ainsley, side to side with his sister._

" _Malcolm," his mother hisses from behind them. "Ainsley-"_

" _Listen to me," Martin cuts in, drowning her out. Malcolm's focus is all for his father. Ainsley doesn't move an inch at the sound of her name, just gazes back at Martin with the same anger flickering in her eyes, the same pain behind her gaze that Martin's expression holds. "I love you," their father tells them, pausing, and swallows before going on, "I will_ _ **always**_ _love you."_

_Malcolm's gaze meets his father's, softening as Martin looks first at him, and then Ainsley._

_Barely more than a whisper, he goes on, "because_ _**we're the same** _ _."_

_Ainsley's head moves back an inch, but her eyes don't leave Martin. Malcolm steadies himself with a breath, briefly allowing the flashing lights behind Martin to distract him. Another rush of anger swirls in his gut. He bites it back, takes another deep breath, and opens his mouth._

_Jessica's fingers curl around his arm in a vice-like grip, pulling him back. Ainsley gets the same treatment. "Get him out of here," she yells over the sirens, and Martin is dragged backwards-_

* * *

The world spirals and hits him again in a sudden flash, a sickening jolt.

Pain explodes in his chest. Malcolm groans, bites his tongue, and forces his eyes open. It takes him a moment to realize where he is, to remember that it's been ten years since his father's arrest, to remember that it's been five years since he'd even set _foot_ in New York City, to remember that there's a killer after him, and if he's not dead yet, he's definitely about to be-

His gun is gone. His earpiece is hanging off his neck. Slowly, steadily, he forces himself up onto his feet, wincing at every movement. He can't see Claude, but it doesn't take long for his gaze to find the two victims, laying face-down on the floor and tied up, unmoving. He doesn't even know if they're alive, but the sight of them alone is enough to jolt him back into action. Moving over carefully and crouching down to check their pulses, he shifts his other hand to plug his earpiece back in and click his radio on, taking a deep breath to steady himself - god, his chest is so tight, it hurts just to breathe - before he speaks. "This is Whitly. I'm in-"

The unmistakable sound of a gun clicking behind him cuts him off, and he freezes.

One of the victims - the girl's - pulse beats steadily against his fingers. Alive.

Malcolm let's his fingers fall away from the radio. He doesn't have his gun, not that he really planned on using it. No, not for a serial killer. Not for _this_ serial killer. "Hello, Claude."

He pauses a moment, listening to the ragged breathing behind him. Their killer had fallen, too. Malcolm is almost impressed - he'd managed to wake up and spring to action much quicker than Malcolm had, although in the profiler's defense, Claude also hadn't had to deal with being electrocuted beforehand. He takes a moment to relax himself, schooling his expression into a neutral one, before pulling his hand back and pushing himself up slowly. His arms raise on their own accord, up high where Claude can see them, and he waits another moment before he turns around to face the man. Massive, dangerous, a battered leather apron hanging off of him.

"Sorry for dropping in," Malcolm manages to say, a faint smile tugging at the corners of his lips. Claude just stares back at him, unamused, half-hidden in the shadows. Malcolm can't completely get a look at the expression on his face, but he assumes the joke didn't land. "Right. Okay. Uh, should I tell you that the police are here? Or… actually, I'm sure you already know…"

Claude growls at him - actually _growls_ at him, like- like a _dog_ or a _bear_. Perhaps he is that dangerous. Now that he actually _is_ staring down the barrel of a loaded gun, Malcolm manages to feel a faint flicker of fear stirring in his gut. But he can do this. He's done this so many times.

"I have to say…" He begins, looking around. He has to do a double-take toward a shelf with jars lined on top, each holding a human head with wide, dead eyes seemingly staring right at him. His stomach twists for only a second before fear and disgust is quickly replaced with curiosity and wonder, and his eyes flick rapidly across the jars for a moment, stunned into silence, before Claude shuffling forward just a step snaps him back to attention. "Uh, this- _this_ is incredible," he begins, and he means it, as he points toward the jars. "An actual trophy room! Most profilers would _die_ to see this, you know. Uh-" His gaze snaps to the gun, catching himself, although he can't help but huff out a laugh at his own mistake. "Uh, kidding. Not _literally_ die. In any case…"

Somewhere, he hears the distinct, muffled sound of doors creaking and footsteps thundering.

Claude snarls at him, the gun jerking sharply, and Malcolm's heart stops for a second and takes off again at the speed of light, accompanied by a rush of adrenaline. "How'd you find me?"

"Short version?" Malcolm responds quickly, watching Claude's finger shift on the trigger.

"Tell me," he warns, and Malcolm nods.

"Your victims- their skin? It was smooth. Untouched. Identical," Malcolm spoke hurriedly, eyes darting back and forth between Claude and the gun. "Then it hit me - you chose them like a butcher would. Someone who spent their life in a slaughterhouse." He manages a smile, somewhat proud of himself, but he's quick to continue when Claude doesn't respond just yet. "They sent you here when you were eleven, right? A ward of the state?" There's a pause, a moment of silence. Then Claude nods, and another rush of pride almost gets another smile out of Malcolm. He keeps it back, nodding, "this is where you were made, then. A psychotic paraphiliac. The only way you feel intimacy is by cutting people up. It's how you show love."

The gun moves back a bit, much to Malcolm's delight. Claude hesitates, still in the shadows, just barely out of sight - and then moves forward. One cautious step after the other.

The expression on his face is soft, gentle. Malcolm softens a little bit in turn.

"I was made?" Claude asks him slowly, confused.

"No one's born broken," Malcolm replies gently, letting his hands drop. He's no longer afraid of the man in front of him, and no longer afraid of the gun he's holding. He's far too reminded of his father right then to feel anything but compassion for the man. Despite what he's done, what he'd just been about to do. _No one's born broken._ "Someone breaks us," he quietly continues.

Claude looks at him for a long moment. There's no anger in his eyes now. "... how?"

"Put the gun down," Malcolm advises, inclining his head. "And I'll tell you." Claude hesitates. The footsteps get louder, closer, and Malcolm breathes out sharply through his nose, feeling another faint flicker of fear once again - this time _for_ Claude, not because of him. "They're coming," he urges, albeit gently. Soft and agreeable. The man glances back up at him, then looks toward the broken ceiling above them, where they'd fallen through. Malcolm sees the fear in his eyes, the uncertainty, the pain. And he feels for the man. "I can't help you if you're dead."

Claude doesn't say anything, doesn't move for a moment. His eyes trail down to his gun, wary and cautious, then focuses on Malcolm. But something in the profiler's expression, something in his eyes, must have shown his sincerity - because he _is_ being sincere. He _wants_ to help him. As much as he wants to help the two unconscious victims behind him, he wants to help Claude, too. And that seems to be enough, thank _god_ , because Claude lowers the gun completely.

He's relieved. He's grateful. But above all else, he's _proud._

"Thank you," Malcolm tells him genuinely, watching him lower the gun to the ground. His shoulders relax, content now that they can bring him in easily. Nobody has to die tonight. "Now-"

A gunshot rings out. Malcolm flinches in surprise.

Claude's hand is inches away from his gun, not even making contact, not even close to the trigger. Malcolm feels something inside of him shrivel up and die all at once, he feels something spark and crackle and _snap_ , a rush of explosive anger taking him over before he even turns.

"I did it," the Sheriff gasps behind him. Malcolm just stares at Claude, heart sinking straight to his stomach as the man crumbles to the ground with a bullet hole in his chest. "I got him!"

"He put it down," Malcolm whispers, head spinning.

"No…" The Sheriff brushes past him, shoulders touching. Malcolm jerks away from him at once, watching with nothing but disgust and horror and _rage_ as the man crouches down beside the dead serial killer, grabbing the shotgun that Claude had discarded and shifting it over to make it look like he'd still been holding it. "No, he didn't. You're scared, mixed up. I killed a serial killer." The Sheriff laughs, twisting his head to look up at him, and offers a grin. "I'm a damn _hero."_

"A cold-blooded hero," Malcolm snarls back before he can stop himself. He watches the Sheriff's expression harden, watches the man heave himself to his feet and step toward him, but he doesn't react when the man grabs him by the front of his vest and yanks him forward, biting out a grunt through clenched teeth and baring his teeth the Sheriff gets up in his face.

"Don't you get it twisted, son," he warns, eyes sparkling coldly. "I just saved your life."

Malcolm stares at him for a moment, fury pulsing through him like fire.

He doesn't remember deciding to swing. He just remembers swinging, his fist connecting with the other man's jaw hard enough to send him staggering, send him falling, send him to the floor.

His hand throbs. It's a _beautiful_ feeling.

"Don't _you_ get it twisted," he spits, brushing his hair back, and sneers, "I'm not _your_ son."

* * *

He's not surprised to find himself in a conference room the next day. Punching a Sheriff, of course, he's not going to get off lightly for that. And he doesn't expect to. He doesn't want to. He'd already had every intention of returning to New York in the long run - this may be a little sooner than planned, but he figures by the time he gets out of here, that's where he'll be headed. And honestly, he's more than ready for it. He's had enough of DC, he's had enough of the FBI, and he's had enough of the people here who don't even want him around anyway. So he doesn't say a word when he sits down. He doesn't even bother to give them the same respective, polite bullcrap. He reclines back, propping his legs up on the table, and waits.

"Special Agent Whitly," one of the supervisors begins, and Malcolm inclines his head silently, arching an eyebrow at her. "This report is damning. You ignored protocol, intimidated everyone who said no to you, and pissed off every cop between here and Tennessee."

Malcolm hums, thinking about that for a moment. "Well, all in all, that's like four _good_ cops."

One of the supervisors glares at him. Another one clears his throat and sits up, leaning forward, and folds his hands together over the desk. "We have a sign off from the DOJ. You're fired."

He's not surprised. Not even upset.

But he humors them.

"What?" The act is convincing; his eyes widen, demeanor switching from 'relaxed' to 'shocked' in an instant. He even puts his feet down, planting them firmly against the floor, and leans forward toward them, putting on his best dismayed expression and raising his eyebrows. He even gestures a hand as he speaks, something he only does when he's truly passionate about something, though they wouldn't know that - it's just for kicks. "But I found Claude Springer. I- I saved those people," he insists, sprinkling a little bit of anger into his tone. They all simply sigh.

"I'm sorry, Whitly," one of them pipes up. One of the profilers that he'd worked under when he'd first joined. He manages to spare them a particularly betrayed look. "This was my call. I worry you may suffer from some…" They hesitate, going silent for a moment, and Malcolm resists the urge to roll his eyes. Ooh, he knows what's coming. "Psychotic tendencies. Not unlike your…"

"Father," Malcolm interrupts, tugging his lips into a cold smile. "It always goes back to him."

"He's the _Surgeon_ ," the other profiler responds firmly. "As for you - your narcissism-"

At that, Malcolm scoffs. "Loving and respecting oneself isn't _narcissism._ Of course, I wouldn't expect you to understand that. And for the record, the Surgeon isn't a _psychopath_. He's a _sociopath_. Not that you should know the difference or anything - it's only your job." Taking a breath to steady himself, and curling his lips back into a cold, dangerous smile at the group in front of him - who had looked increasingly uneasy as Malcolm went on, and now just looked worried as the man made his way to his feet. He took a little bit of pleasure at the fear written across their faces, which was only one of many reasons he added, pulling his gun out, "and…"

They tense. Malcolm grins.

"Next time you call someone crazy-" He holds the gun up and clicks it down onto the table. Everyone except him flinches at the sound, while he only chuckles, "ask for their gun first."

Nobody says anything. They just stare at him.

"And if you're going to compare me to my father, at least list the similarities that make sense." Malcolm smirks, running his fingers through his hair, and unhooks his badge to toss that down as well. Once again, everyone flinches when it hits the table, even though the sound it makes is much quieter than the gun. "For instance, you could have mentioned our dashingly good looks. Or my eyes." He makes a show of batting his eyelashes at them, only feeling more and more amused by the confused expressions on their faces. "I've been told I have my father's eyes."

"Uh…" The supervisors look at one another, silent. The head profiler frowns, and coughs, leaning back in his seat with an uncomfortable expression. "You're dismissed, Mr. Whitly."

"Lovely," Malcolm sighs, rolling his eyes, and strides toward the door. He pauses when he reaches it, however, one hand reaching out to push it open, and turns back to face them with a smile. "One more thing. Let Special Agent Koll and his team know they can fuck themselves."

Leaving them all with wide eyes and open mouths, Malcolm leaves without looking back again.

And honestly, it just feels like a weight off his shoulders.


	2. Chapter 2

_Malcolm's eighteen years old, blood splattered over his clothes._

_He's screaming. Ainsley is screaming. Someone else is screaming -_ _ **he's**_ _screaming. His face is a blur of red in Malcolm's mind. Malcolm doesn't need to see him clearly to feel_ _ **furious**_ _, though. And that fury drives him forward. He doesn't know how he gets the knife in his hand, or when. But he cuts and slashes and stabs for all he's worth, until the man in front of him screams louder. He hears Ainsley laughing, egging him on as they fight, as Malcolm drives_ _ **him**_ _back._

 _Pain rushes through his abdomen, racing through his whole body. Blood sticks to his clothes, his skin, only this time it's his own blood. There's a knife in his stomach, his_ _ **own**_ _knife, and-_

* * *

And he wakes with a start just like every night, with a furious scream ripped from his throat, muffled by his mouth guard. His hands yank and strain at his cuffs for a second before he freezes, and relaxes again. Anger still churns through him like fire, a rush of searing heat that burns him from the inside out. His face is still fresh in Malcolm's mind, but that's not a rare feat. Nightmares. Night terrors, actually. Always just chilling and desperate and chaotic enough to leave his adrenaline pumping by the time he wakes up again - and his mind doesn't help matters. The fact that his nightmares refuse to fill in the _good_ parts (the blood on his clothes, the severed hand on the ground, the way the water swallowed _his_ body up in swirls of blue and red) doesn't help matters either. He hates that one of his favorite memories is twisted and turned against him every night, for reasons he can't quite explain. He doesn't know why he dreams about it like that. He just knows it's one of very few reasons that he doesn't quite… ah… _sleep._

Even in death, John Watkins haunts him. His eyes narrow at the ceiling for a moment, before silently letting his eyes slip shut, letting the _real_ memories of that day flood right back to him.

He doesn't remember everything. Snippets and blurs. He remembers confronting him with Ainsley for one reason or another, trying to figure out if Martin had killed someone, trying to figure out what they needed to do to keep the police off their father's back. One thing had led to another and Malcolm doesn't really remember why they'd started fighting - he just remembers flicking out the pocket knife Martin had bought him, swinging and slashing for all he was worth. He remembers Ainsley fighting like a tiger. He remembers John trying his best to fight them off. He remembers the way the knife had glinted so beautifully as it slashed across John's wrist-

He remembers Ainsley slamming him back, pinning him down, while Malcolm severed his hand.

And, oh, he remembers the _blood_.

_("When you see your victim's blood for the first time," Martin had read to him and Ainsley from a book once. A book that had his initials on it, 'M.W.', but the handwriting inside didn't look like Martin's. Still, he was silent, intent, watching and listening. "It's exhilarating. Like touching down in Oz. Everything's suddenly in color. It's a rush like you can't imagine. Better than any drug…")_

And oh, how right that had been. The sight of John's blood had painted everything red. Beautiful, beautiful shades of red. Bright red. Dark red. Maroon. _Blood_. Everything was its own shade, from light to dark, shades of red Malcolm couldn't even name now. Just thinking about it made his heart race a little quicker, sparked something unexplainable and even a little terrifying in his chest, made his stomach twist and churn in ways he couldn't describe. Just thinking about it was a rush, one that never ceased to satisfy him when he needed it. And it wasn't like he was a psychopath, like he didn't have a reason, like he'd kill an innocent person just to say he could.

Blood was so much sweeter spilled from the veins of those destined for Hell.

Content once more, Malcolm blinks his eyes open, gazing at the ceiling for a moment, clenching his teeth over the mouth guard, and spits it straight up in the air. A mistake, considering it comes back down and wacks him in the nose almost immediately, but he simply shakes it off his face and pushes himself back, reaching one of his cuffed hands over to grab the remote to his stereo and working on undoing the cuff with the other hand as he presses the button to turn it on.

 _I'm doing this tonight  
_ _You're probably gonna start a fight  
_ _I know this can't be right  
_ _Hey, baby, come on…_

Perfect way to start the day. Malcolm smiles, the tension draining completely from his muscles, and stretches his legs out before climbing to his feet. He dials down the volume a bit before discarding the remote on his nightstand and heading from his room to the rest of the apartment, where Sunshine's cage rests in front of the stairs. It's a big cage for a small parakeet like her, but one he felt was a must the moment he saw it. Castle shaped, with two 'floors' and as many perches and toys and whatever Sunshine's little bird heart desired rests inside. And of course, his baby bird herself is perched patiently near one of the 'doors', which Malcolm is quick to unlatch with his pinkie as he passes. "Good morning, Sunshine," he greets with a smile, watching her flutter out to greet him, and he can't help but laugh as she lands on his shoulder, offering an affectionate little nibble to his ear that brings a giggle from his lips. "Sleep well?"

She trills and chirps, as if in response, and Malcolm grins to himself as he makes his way into the kitchen. "So, since I don't have to rush breakfast today, I'm thinking pancakes sound good," he comments, grabbing the bag of bird food off the counter and moving to fill up Sunshine's bowl before anything. One of the many benefits, he supposed, about getting fired from the FBI. He was on nobody's time but his own - though he did have a few plans of his own today, too…

"Wonder if Arroyo'll take me back," he mumbles, checking his phone before setting to work.

Ah, the NYPD. He'd worked there for a while, before he'd applied to Quantico. He had his own reasons for it, of course, and… well, it wasn't solely because he wanted to catch killers.

Actually, he'd joined the NYPD with only _one_ on the brain.

Not to say he didn't like what he did. Being a profiler was _fun_. There's just something about it, getting into killers' heads, figuring out what makes them tick. Saving innocent people is a perk. Helping serial killers, even, helping them realize what _made_ them, it's a perk. But he'd joined the NYPD solely to figure out _one_ case. Dr. Martin Whitly, the Surgeon. Growing up, he never really got answers. He and Ainsley would ask questions regularly the older they got, but Martin never entertained them. He spoke about his 'hobbies', read them his murder books, but he never told them why he did what he did. He never explicitly spoke about his own victims. And after that night, he _never_ spoke of the girl in the box. It was unspoken, and yet not; they all knew about it. They all knew about _him_. Malcolm and Ainsley eventually stopped asking questions, and started digging for answers on their own. While, of course, keeping everything they knew under wraps.

Ten years. Ten years, they kept their father's secret. Malcolm hadn't breathed a word of what he knew, what he'd seen, to a soul. Nor had Ainsley. It had all come to a head on its own; Malcolm had joined the NYPD by that time, hoping to get closer to the case, to figure out more on his own what his father wouldn't tell him. His arrest had only pushed him to find out more.

Joining the FBI had been for a completely different reason. He'd gone to Quantico with the intention of finding out how they'd figured out that his father was the Surgeon to begin with.

Only to realize they had less of an answer than Malcolm had.

It still pisses him off, not knowing how they'd caught up to Martin. Like an itch he can't scratch.

His mood has darkened, but not quite soured, by the time he sits down with his pancakes.

One thing is for certain - he hasn't given up in his quest for answers yet, and he'll be damned if he stops now, after all those years. After all - a Whitly _always_ finishes what they started.

* * *

"They _fired_ you? Because of _Dad?"_

Despite himself, Malcolm can only chuckle. He knows how ridiculous it is, but he also knows Ainsley isn't nearly as surprised as she sounds. They both knew how tough it was to survive in a world full of people who looked at them like they were gonna be the world's next serial killers. And the worst part of it was that they weren't _wrong_ , really, when they said there was a darkness in them, an _evil_. The thing with John Watkins, for instance. And there were other things, too. John's blood wasn't the only blood Malcolm had spilled. And sure, he'd never hurt a soul who didn't deserve it - but didn't every killer have some kind of motive, in the long run? It didn't matter what it was, not to the rest of the world. Murder was murder. And apparently New York thought it was okay to condemn an entire family for one man's actions. But it was what it was; they'd grown up in this world, seen how cruel it can be. _Neither_ of them are _surprised._

"It's not fair," Ainsley groans, keeping pace with him, and Malcolm shrugs. Sure, it's not fair. Life's not fair. But life goes on. And Malcolm's not really torn up about it either. His sister falls silent for a moment, walking beside him, then manages a brief smirk. "... you _punched_ him?"

"Clocked him right in the jaw," Malcolm affirms, taking a proud sip of his coffee.

"Ugh, I would've given _anything_ to see that," Ainsley laughs, and Malcolm can't help but laugh along with her, rolling his eyes to the side. Briefly, he looks out toward the lake as they pass. The same lake that runs through the forest - the same forest in which was buried the severed hand of John Watkins. And that lake they were walking past was the same one they'd dumped his body into once they'd gained the upper hand. He still remembers the way the water had swallowed him as he screamed, thrashing and struggling against the current as it took him away. Swallowing and spitting and choking on water until finally there was nothing but _silence_.

Ainsley follows his gaze, an intrigued expression flitting across her face, and smiles slightly. A fond memory for her, too, he knows. Both of them were happy to be rid of the bastard.

"Hey." She nudges his shoulder suddenly, and Malcolm grins as he flicks his gaze back to his sister, offering her a warm look while Ainsley simply tilts her coffee cup toward him, a mischievous glimmer in her eyes now. "This is a good thing. Now you can get back to work with your friends." She pauses, thinking, and hummed, "and, you know. Lieutenant Arroyo."

Malcolm only snickers, looking ahead. "If he welcomes me back. I might have to _beg._ "

"Oh, I don't think you'll have to beg," a familiar voice cuts in, one that brings an instinctive smile to his lips. Ainsley practically lights up, whipping her head around to look at the man approaching. Henry Whitly - formerly Henry White. He looks almost exactly the same as he did the last time Malcolm saw him in person, five years ago just before he left. The sight of him alone is enough to bring a smile to Malcolm's lips, greeting his adoptive brother with a hum.

Henry had come into their lives when they were… what, seventeen? Yeah, he and Henry had been seventeen, Ainsley had been eleven. That had been thirteen years ago. He remembers the day Martin brought Henry home, like a stray; it had taken some explaining, in which Martin had reluctantly admitted that Henry was his nephew, and that his father - Martin's brother - had died and Henry had nowhere else to go. Jessica was _surprisingly_ quick to welcome the new kid into their house, and while Malcolm had accepted him without a fuss, he and Ainsley were…

… wary would be an understatement. Not because of Henry. But because of the implications that his arrival had brought. It had been a tough adjustment for all of them; not just coming to terms with the fact that an Uncle they'd never even heard about before was dead, but also coming to realize that their father could have very well been the one to, ah… put him down.

(Given the circumstances, though, they'd honestly wondered if he'd _deserved_ it.)

Henry never spoke of his father. Once or twice when asked, but… he was quiet. And he didn't seem too torn up about his death, either. Nobody had mentioned a funeral, and life had just gone on, this time with Henry in the mix, as if he'd always been there and nothing had changed. And, eventually, it was like nothing had. Henry settled in, and they got used to him - more than that, they'd grown to see him as family. Well, he _was_ family - he was their cousin, obviously - but they'd grown to see him as more than that. Like a brother. At least, that's how Malcolm saw him.

Given the way Ainsley grins at him, all teeth and sparkly-eyed, she felt the same way.

But, he digresses.

"You know how Arroyo felt about you leaving," Henry reminds him, spinning a lollipop in one hand and reaching the other out for a fist bump. Malcolm rolls his eyes, but obliges anyway.

"Right, I'm sure he absolutely fell apart without me," he muses, chuckling. "Hello, Henry."

Henry flashes him a crooked smile, green eyes glittering with amusement, then casts a quick glance in Ainsley's direction as he falls into step with them on Ainsley's other side. "So, fired, huh? That quickly? Damn, you only lasted five years. Actually, I'm a little bit surprised…"

"Shut up," Ainsley protests, but laughter takes the bite out of her words. "You know _why?"_

"Because he's a psychopath," Henry replies innocently.

Malcolm sucks in a gasp, feigning an offended expression, and hums thoughtfully into his cup as he takes another sip. "I don't think I'm a _psychopath._ Sociopath, _maybe_. But that's a bit of a stretch. And if I do fall into that category, I'm definitely a _high-functioning_ sociopath," he adds, smirking a bit proudly to himself and swirling his cup around, "which makes me superior."

"Okay, first of all, you're not a sociopath," Ainsley sighs, rolling her eyes, and Malcolm shrugs.

"Superior?" Henry isn't letting that go. He squints for a moment, eyes focused ahead of them, then wrinkles his nose and shoots Malcolm a weird look. "Superior to _what?_ Other sociopaths?"

Ainsley groans, clearly not happy with being stuck between them in this conversation. She's luckily, however, saved by her phone - Malcolm arches an eyebrow, silently taking another sip as she shifts to pull it out of the bag hanging from her wrist, and Henry's quick to shut up as well when she pulls it out, checking the number and practically lighting up as she does so. "Ooh! That's work, I've got a report on a _thing_." She rejects the call, however, only to send a text.

"Oh?" Malcolm can't help but shuffle forward. His sister's job interests him in a million different ways. If something's going on, she's one of the first to know about it - and there's rarely ever been a time she hasn't told him something juicy. "Another Ainsley Whitly exclusive, huh?"

On Ainsley's other side, Henry clears his throat and puts on his best 'TV announcer' voice to declare, rather loudly, "the Surgeon's daughter dissects another murder? Tonight at 11!"

Malcolm practically giggles, while Ainsley just huffs out a snicker. "You wish. Actually, I don't know yet. It's probably just some white collar crap." She pauses, scanning her phone, and smirks before dropping it back into her bag and taking one last sip of her coffee before passing the cup over to Henry, who looks more than happy to finish off the rest. "But the good news is I'm about to get more information. And don't you worry, I'll keep you guys updated, promise!"

"Mm, yes," Henry murmurs, taking a sip. "Bonus points if it's a murder, Lee-Lee."

Malcolm chuckles, sighs, and offers his sister a warm smile. "Have fun, Ains."

"Always! Love you!" Ainsley spins around, pecking first him on the cheek and then Henry, and skips off with a smile. Malcolm turns his head to watch her go as he walks, while his cousin moves over to walk beside him, taking Ainsley's place at his side as he takes another sip.

"Okay, so I'll bite," his adoptive brother decides after a moment, side-eyeing him with a smirk, and Malcolm can barely keep the grin off his face, knowing what's coming next. Oh, he can't wait to tell the story to Henry. Because he has absolutely no idea whether his brother's going to praise him, mock him, or flat-out tell him he's an idiot, but knowing Henry, he's probably looking forward to a mix of all three. "Why did the Federal Bureau of Investigation fire Malcolm Whitly?"

"Because," Malcolm begins, pausing for dramatic effect and to take another sip of coffee, before swallowing and continuing on with a grin, "Malcolm Whitly punched a county Sheriff in the face."

Henry doesn't say anything. He doesn't even look at him.

He just takes another sip of his coffee and nods quietly.

After a moment, he says simply, "Malcolm Whitly is an idiot."

"Malcolm Whitly is aware of this," Malcolm responds, grinning, "Malcolm Whitly does not care."

"This is why I keep telling you you need to go to anger management or something," Henry sighs, rolling his eyes toward Malcolm. The man merely snorts, rolling his eyes to the side and taking another sip of his coffee while Henry just shakes his head. "Why did you punch a Sheriff?"

"Short version? He pissed me off. On multiple accounts, honestly. Guy had it coming for a long time," Malcolm responds, pursing his lips for a moment. "Let's see, he's an asshole. He shot an unarmed man - who, yes, I'm aware was a serial killer, but he was also a serial killer who had put his weapon down and was completely willing and compliant by the time the Sheriff got there. Then he had the nerve to call himself a hero. We could have saved three lives, not just two."

Henry frowns, unresponsive beside him for a moment, and ducks his head. His expression is almost unreadable when Malcolm looks over at him, but he's a profiler. He can pick apart the subtle differences in his facial expressions, the wariness that flicks across his face, the uncertainty and unease and the spark of familiarity that flares up before it smolders out again. "Maybe you're just too soft for serial killers," he finally responds, and although there's nothing particularly accusatory about his tone, Malcolm can't help but feel somewhat judged - but he's not surprised by that. Jessica's influence had rubbed off on Henry quite a bit, after all.

He glares ahead for a moment, offering a begrudging, "maybe," and nothing more.

Henry sighs, silent for a good minute as they walk, before asking, "have you spoken to him?"

"Not in five years," Malcolm replies, heaving out a quiet sigh. It's the truth. He hadn't seen his father since he'd moved to DC, joined Quantico. They'd parted on relatively good terms, and Malcolm would have kept in contact if he _could_ , but it wasn't like they could video chat or talk over the phone. Claremont was a wonderful place - Malcolm would know, he'd studied it extensively for a long time after his father's arrest - but he figured someone like Martin wasn't allowed to have phone privileges. They kept in touch through Ainsley, for the most part, who still visited their father regularly - but it had been a long time, a damn long time, since Malcolm had seen his father face to face. "What about you?" He asks after a moment. "You still visit him?"

"Every Friday," Henry replies with a shrug. "I drop off Mr. David's paychecks, say hello." He chuckles, sighing, and rolls his eyes. "He asks about you a lot. He's gonna freak when he finds out you're back in the city," he adds with a smirk, glancing at Malcolm, who only chuckles.

"I'll bet. I can't wait to see the look on his face."

Henry smirks. "When're you going to see him? We should all three go. Family reunion!" He pauses, thinking for a moment, and shrugs. "I mean, you know. Minus Ma. But it's fine."

Malcolm smirks at that, then frowns. "Speaking of Mother…"

"Hold that thought," Henry interrupts, followed quickly by the sound of his phone buzzing in his pocket, and passes his almost-empty coffee over to Malcolm. The man just narrows his eyes, albeit affectionately, and watches his adoptive brother with a faint smile as he pulls his phone from his pocket and turns his attention away briefly to see who's calling. "Aaaand that's work."

"Which one?" Malcolm teases. "The car one, the acting one or the bounty hunter one?"

"The acting one. Superman's late." Henry smirks, plucking the cup from his hands. Malcolm grins in response while his cousin spins around, walking backwards and waving a hand in his direction. "Anyways, you do you or whatever. And don't worry about the whole Lieutenant Arroyo NYPD thing, I'm sure he'll be thrilled to have you back to key his car every week again!"

Ah, fun times. Malcolm rolls his eyes, but he can't bite back a grin. "See you later, Henry."

"Byyyyyyeeeeee!"

With a smile, Malcolm watches Henry head off again, leaving him to take the rest of his morning walk on his own. Which he doesn't mind all too much; he'll double around, head back to the precinct and see if he can catch up with Arroyo. Sounds like a plan. So, content once more, the man downs the rest of his coffee, discards the cup in a nearby trash can, and heads off again.

* * *

He doesn't even have the chance to get to the precinct before another familiar voice stops him. Familiar voice, familiar face, familiar words. It makes him grin, instinctively. "City boy!"

Turning, he's completely unsurprised to see Gil Arroyo. It had been a while since he'd seen him, but admittedly not long since he'd heard from him. They kept in touch over the phone - not nearly as often as Malcolm did with everyone else, but often enough. Gil had been the one to tell him about Jackie, calling him often during her final days and letting them talk over the phone. He'd come up to DC after her funeral - which Malcolm would have gladly come back to New York to attend had he not been tied up thanks to a particular serial killer during that time… anyway, that had been three years ago. Gil had shown up with a gift, one last present from Jackie. A little baby green and yellow parakeet; that was the last time he'd seen him, when he'd been given Sunshine. Three years. And somehow, Gil hadn't seemed to age a bit since then.

To say Malcolm has a complicated relationship with Gil Arroyo would be an understatement. This was the man who had put his father in handcuffs. Even before that, though, their relationship had been strained; as a teenager, Malcolm had done everything in his power to keep the NYPD's attention away from his father - which included getting into trouble at every turn. And Gil, being the Lieutenant of the NYPD, was usually the source of all of his antics.

Nothing bad, honestly. Minor offenses, nothing too damning. Malcolm would take his precious LeMans for joyrides, spray paint graffiti on the precinct walls… whatever he could do. He wasn't sure when things had changed _somewhat_ , when he actually became interested in the things Gil did - but he did know, despite everything, when he'd come to the conclusion that he wanted to work with the NYPD and become a profiler, Gil had accepted and welcomed him with open arms. Their relationship hadn't become strained since Martin was arrested - Malcolm was old enough to understand he was only doing his job, he was already working with Gil at the time.

But there were things Gil didn't know about him. He didn't know about John Watkins. He didn't know he continued to visit his father for the next five years after his arrest. He didn't know Malcolm's true motive for joining the NYPD, for going to work with the FBI, he didn't know that Malcolm had known his father's secret all along. And Malcolm wasn't _entirely_ sure what kind of relationship they had - but it wasn't deep enough, he didn't think, to share all that.

Still, he greets him with a grin and his signature, "Lieutenant Arroyo!" As he makes his way forward, stuffing his hands into his pockets. "A pleasure to see you, as always." Gil only smirks at him, nothing but warmth sparkling in his eyes as he pulls his sunglasses off, and Malcolm cocks his head, looking him up and down, and hums, just to be an ass, "you look old."

To his credit, Arroyo only laughs, arching an eyebrow at him, and shrugs. He ventures forward, folding his sunglasses and tucking them away. "Heard you were back in town. You know, it's not nice to sneak back home and not tell your friends," the older man adds, schooling his features into a mockingly hurt expression, and Malcolm briefly allows a grin to flit across his face. 'Friend' wasn't really a word he'd use to describe Gil Arroyo. He didn't hate the man, but he wasn't going to say he loved him. He loved fucking with him. He loved getting under his skin, on his nerves. He even liked working with him. He… _liked_ Gil. Not quite as a friend. But maybe as a… mentor.

He didn't know. Gil was _something_ to him, he just couldn't describe it.

"Oh, I have friends?" Malcolm smirks, shrugging, and stretches his spine out a little, rolling his shoulders back and offering a yawn. "Yeah, I'm back in the city. And here to stay, I'm afraid."

"Damn," Gil sighs good-naturedly. "And here I was hoping you'd stay the FBI's problem."

"Awh." Malcolm smirks, batting his eyes at Gil in response and snickering a little at the amused look that flits across the other man's face as he rolls his own eyes. "I'll always be _your_ problem."

"Well, right now, you're a welcome problem." Gil ventures forward, close enough to bump his shoulder against Malcolm's, and he can't help but huff out a laugh as he returns the nudge with one of his own. That's the most affection the two of them will exchange, but it feels like enough. Enough of a 'hey, I don't really hate you even though I wanna make your life miserable' between the two of them that Malcolm knows he doesn't need to say it aloud. And that's what he likes about Gil - he never takes anything too personally, because he knows that it's never personal.

"Let me guess, you need me for a case?" Malcolm questions knowingly, and Gil lets out a soft hum and turns away to head to his car. It doesn't take long for the younger of the two to light up, following after him excitedly. "Seriously? First day back? Ooh, is this a welcome back gift?"

"Sure," Gil snorts, unlocking his car and pulling the driver's side door open. But he doesn't get in yet, shooting Malcolm an amused smirk over the top of the car as he adds, "we definitely ordered a custom Surgeon Copycat Case just for you," before getting inside, leaving Malcolm standing there frozen for a good few seconds before he manages to wrench the passenger side door open with a little more force than he meant to to climb inside, sucking in an excited gasp.

"Are you serious?!"

"Mmmhm." Gil arches an eyebrow at him, and Malcolm can't stifle a laugh.

"Ho-o-o-o _ly_ shit that's-" He catches himself quickly, sucking in another breath, and is quick to correct, "uh, awful. It's awful. Seriously awful." Gil only snorts, buckling his seatbelt, and Malcolm squirms a little in his seat as he struggles to compose himself. "Honestly. A tragedy."

"Yeah, I'm sure the new guy shares the same feeling," Gil sighs, rolling his eyes. "Seatbelt."

Malcolm huffs, but he turns to do as told regardless, clicking his seatbelt into place. After a moment, as Gil starts the car, he simply decides to change the subject. "Hey, are _they_ still-?"

Gil smirks, sparing him a glance before looking away as he pulls out of his parking space. "Around? You know they are. Those two are practically tethered to this place - couldn't pry them out with a crowbar," he responds affectionately, and Malcolm can't help but snort a little under his breath as he sinks back again, but he can't keep his lips from twitching either as he thinks those words over. "I know they'll definitely be pleased to have you back. You spoke to 'em?"

"Not yet," Malcolm responds, eyes glittering.

"Good." Gil grins, catching his gaze briefly. "You know they love surprises."


	3. Chapter 3

" _Nice_ place…" Malcolm whistled, following Gil inside.

The building was _new_. Made almost entirely of glass and steel, the outside of it almost looked better than the inside - not that the interior was anything to complain about. Tall building, too. Malcolm fawned over it for a moment as they entered, but it didn't take long for him to lower his gaze and rush forward to catch up with Gil on the way to the elevator, fighting back a grin. "Nice place to get murdered, apparently," the Lieutenant commented with a roll of his eyes, sighing.

"Or to commit murder," Malcolm considered. "It- ah…" He smiled, almost apologetically, at the almost worried glance Gil shot him. Right. No talking murder to Arroyo unless it was necessary.

Gil studied him for a moment, then looked ahead again. "Dani!"

Malcolm snapped his gaze up at once, excitement coming back rather quickly, but not for the same reason as before. The murder and apparent Surgeon Copycat Case forgotten, he pressed forward, brushing past Gil as the woman standing near the elevator immediately turned to face them. Dani Powell looked as wonderful as she always had; One of his best friends since high school, not a day had passed since they met that they hadn't spoken, whether it be in person, over the phone or over video. With delight, he also noted she still had those purple streaks in her hair that she'd gotten and continued to dye every month since they were fifteen. The only new thing about her appearance was a clearly brand-new leather jacket, but Malcolm would be lying if he said he wasn't used to seeing her in leather. "Dani Powell, as I live and breathe!"

"Here we go," Gil sighed, but he was grinning.

A flicker of surprise crossed Dani's face, and then excitement, as she made her way toward them. "Malcolm Whitly, back in New York already? And here I thought you were destined for such great things in DC," she teased. "You didn't stay to beg for your job back, huh?"

"Malcolm Whitly does not _beg_ ," Malcolm protested, and smirked. "Actually, that's a lie. I was fully prepared to beg Arroyo here for my job back. The DOJ on the other hand? _Not_ happening." Dani snickered a little at that, and Malcolm dismissed the subject entirely in favor of circling around her, looking his friend up and down for a moment with a grin. "Anyway, you look good! I'm loving the new jacket, though I'm gonna miss the old one," he admitted with a chuckle.

Dani only flashed him a crooked smirk and rolled her eyes toward Gil. "So, did he beg?"

"No," Gil replied, amused. "Though I'd have loved to see that."

"Yeah, I bet you would've." Malcolm snorted and spun around to keep walking toward the elevator, and Dani snickered a little as she fell into step with him with Gil in tow. "Soooo word is this new guy is mimicking my father, huh? Bet he's ecstatic," he mumbled, mostly to himself, but shook his head quickly to clear it and turned his attention back to Dani. "What do we got?"

"Victim's name is Vanessa Hobbs," Dani informed him, all business now. The elevator opened, and Malcolm was quick to step inside while Dani waved a file in his direction, which he took quickly with a grin, flicking it open and scanning it at once. "Mayor's office keeps calling," she added, turning back to Gil as the man entered with them, and Malcolm frowned a little to himself as he glanced back up at them over the top of the file, arching an eyebrow. "We got a V.I.C. on our hands." Malcolm lifted his head completely at that, mouthing the letters. _Interesting, huh?_

"V.I.C.?"

"Very Important Cadaver," Gil informed him, sighing.

"That's the medical examiner's initial report," Dani hummed, leaning back against the wall beside Malcolm and crossing her arms over her chest while he turned back to the file.

"No fluid or blood around the body…" Malcolm arched an eyebrow, narrowing his eyes. That alone was interesting. There was usually some sort of psycho-sexual component to cases like this - Malcolm knew he'd definitely seen enough to last him a lifetime. Definitely one part of the job he could do without, though this definitely sent him for a loop. Whoever had done this was careful… _in control._ Not just of Vanessa, of himself - in most cases like this, the killer rarely had the self-control to leave behind no mess whatsoever. "He's a neat boy," he mumbled to himself, scanning that particular part of the file for a moment. Self-control. That was a key component.

"Easy, Whitly," Gil warned him, and Malcolm only offered an innocent smile in response. What? This was just part of his process. Everything mattered. Every little detail, no matter how small, how seemingly unimportant it was. _Everything_ mattered; Malcolm couldn't let _anything_ go.

"Anyway, _this_ doesn't match the Surgeon's cases," Malcolm reminded them, tapping the file and rolling his eyes a little despite himself. "He's done a lot of bad things, for sure, but he never did _that_." Dani glanced over at him silently, eyebrows furrowing, while Malcolm only cleared his throat and turned his attention back to the file. "So he's taking some creative liberties. On top of being a copycat, he's obviously got his own motive for doing this. It's like he's making a point…"

"Hey," Dani chided, nudging his shoulder. "Save your voodoo stuff for when you see the body."

"It's not voodoo," Malcolm protested, but he snickered as he nudged her back. "It's a _gift_."

"Brace yourself," Gil called over his shoulder as the elevator opened, stepping out at once. Malcolm was slower to follow, taking the chance to stretch and pop his back before he headed out with Dani keeping pace with him. Seeing her in person again was nothing but a thrill, but there was someone else who he was also excited to see, and he was right up ahead. "JT!"

"Gil!" JT Tarmel, one of the best men he knew. He grinned to himself as the man turned to look at them, open-mouthed to keep talking, but his gaze snapped past Gil and landed on Malcolm.

Sheer delight flashed across his face, and Gil was quick to shuffle to the side when the man turned and propelled himself forward with long, purposeful strides in Malcolm's direction, carefully side-stepping the rest of the crime scene without disturbing a thing. As eager as Malcolm might have been to get back to work, he cared much less about the body right then than he cared about his friend. He, Dani and JT had been damn near inseparable growing up; they'd gone to school together, they'd joined the NYPD together, they'd been on the same team since the day they met. They were like family to him in a million different ways, and above all else, family was Malcolm Whitly's biggest weakness - be it adoptive family, or biological.

"Malcolm!" JT pulled him into his signature bear hug, briefly crushing Malcolm's arms at his sides, but the man only laughed. Given how small he was compared to JT, it wasn't a hard feat to wiggle his arms free to wrap them around his friend in response, squeezing him as tight as he could, although it paled in comparison to the bone-crushing hug that JT was giving him.

"You _knew_ I was coming back," Malcolm chided with a laugh as they pulled apart.

"I didn't know you were coming _here_ , and I didn't know you were coming _today_ ," JT accused.

"Well, I would've told you, but I know how you like surprises," Gil cut in with a smirk, exchanging a glance with Dani, who only chuckled and ducked her head, rolling her eyes to the side.

"Best surprise ever," JT declared, and Malcolm grinned. When it came down to it, JT was pretty much the equivalent of a gentle giant. Between the three of them, he was the one who had kept Malcolm and Dani out of trouble in their youth more often than not. While he tagged along during their adventures and antics, for the most part he seemed to just be there for support; whenever Malcolm and Dani had done something bad enough for Gil to bring them in, JT was always the one who came by to bring them home. To those who didn't know him, he could come off a little distant, maybe even cold - but to Malcolm? He was pretty much just a teddy bear.

"So…" Malcolm tilted his head, curling his lips back into a grin. "How's the wife?"

JT grinned back at him, eyes practically sparkling at the mention of Tally. His wife of seven years, who Malcolm is honestly rather fond of - a wonderful woman, that girl. Malcolm had liked her from the moment JT had introduced them. "She's great, man. She'll be happy to see you."

"I'll be sure to pop in for a visit," Malcolm replied, flashing a grin. Then he hummed, looking past the other man after a moment, and raised his eyebrows slightly, allowing his grin to widen as he took in the scene in front of him, before letting it drop into a contemplative look. That must be Vanessa, the victim. She was face-down on the floor, her head turned slightly to the side. One hand up near her head, the other one stretched downwards beside her. A broken glass on the floor, one shoe hanging off of her foot, the other missing. Torn clothes. Signs of a struggle, but…

He blinked a few times, venturing past JT, and narrowed his eyes, taking in the scene. He stopped a few feet away from the body, his back to the others, to the door, and blinked again.

The room spun, blurred and melted away, letting his imagination run wild.

_He was the killer._

_Across the room, Vanessa had just entered, a glass of… what was it? Wine- no, champagne. She was definitely a champagne girl. She moved with purpose, calm and secure, excited. She was waiting - expecting someone, someone special. Someone she trusted. A lover, perhaps. But he wasn't the one she was waiting for; he stepped forward, closer to her -_ closer to the body - _he's not in a hurry, she hadn't seen him yet. Then she did. She wasn't expecting him; she screamed as he got closer, and threw - no, not threw._ The glass was too close, _she's_ too close. _She dropped her glass. He grabbed her. There was a fight, a struggle, he subdued her quickly._

" _How?" His own voice questioned. He saw himself, standing on the other side of the room,_ the other side of the body _, intent, curious blue eyes focused on him. "How did you do it?"_

There were no bruises, no blunt-force trauma. Her hair was a mess and her clothes were torn, but otherwise, physically, Vanessa had been completely uninjured. _He didn't want to_ _ **hurt**_ _her. No - he didn't want to hurt_ _ **her**_ _. He had a motive, a reason, and a plan, but this wasn't personal._

_The Malcolm on the other side of the room tipped his head. "Her eyes."_

Her eyes were open. He didn't knock her out, he didn't poison her, but he did something…

_The illusion was back. He had Vanessa with one hand, the other holding a syringe. A paralytic agent? Trapping her in her own body. She had to feel everything. Maybe this was personal._

" _Or it's a statement," the other Malcolm cut in. "A show of dominance. Of control. Look again."_

He looked the body over, brows furrowed - and then he saw them.

Bruises around her wrists. The other one isn't completely visible, her hair covering it. But the arm stretched downwards at her side, turned so that he could see the inside of her wrist, showed pale bruises - almost faded now. They weren't recent, they weren't a product of this fight. Malcolm knew what fresh bruises looked like better than anyone. _He didn't do this._

" _Now, the paralysis sounds familiar," the other Malcolm began._ It did. It was very familiar. Malcolm had recognized it at once; Lyla Thompson, one of his father's victims. The third to be murdered in what his father had proudly called the _Quartet. "But those bruises don't match."_

They didn't match the _Quartet_. But the murder itself… Malcolm blinked a few times, narrowing his eyes as reality crashed back down around him, the illusions fading and the other him standing across the room fading away into nothingness at once. He stared down for a moment, contemplative, then tugged his lips into a brief smile, turning back to the others. "The _Quartet."_

Gil breathed in through his teeth, looking frustrated. "I knew it."

"We've only had three murders so far," Dani told him, crossing her arms with a frown. Malcolm nodded faintly, letting his thoughts drift again for a moment. Yeah, she was the third. Which…

"Means our killer isn't finished. There's going to be a fourth, which means we need to work fast." Malcolm stretched his arms over his head, grinning. Ohhh, this was going to be _very_ fun. He was rather interested in this guy - he had to be a big serial killer superfan (or at least just a Surgeon superfan) to have memorized the _Quartet_. The bruising, he still didn't quite get, but considering they weren't recent, it wasn't really his focus right then. No, he wanted to know this guy's motive. Which meant… "I'll get to working on a profile. Call me if anything pops up."

"You need a ride?" Gil called after him as he strode forward, ready to leave.

"Nah." Malcolm spun around, walking backwards, and smirked. "It's a nice day for a walk. But thanks for the offer, Arroyo." He stuck his tongue out at him briefly, then flicked his gaze toward Dani and JT, who exchanged an amused look and rolled their eyes. "And I'll see you two later!"

"Bye," Dani chuckled.

JT smirked, and, in his best sing-song voice, called, "bye, bye, bye!"

Malcolm 'snrked', lighting up. "I love you."

"We love you too!"

"Love you too, Whitly!"

Smiling, content, Malcolm spun on his heel and kept walking.

* * *

Returning to his apartment, he immediately noticed something was off. Sunshine was rattling about in her cage, chirping like a madman; which in itself wasn't a good sign, considering he'd left her cage open so she could fly around the apartment and stretch her wings. He wasn't too worried about leaving her alone - she didn't fly into windows and he made a point of locking the door so that nobody could come in for whatever reason and let her out. For the most part, even, when he got home, he'd find her in her cage anyway, just with the door shut. So his first thought that maybe she had accidentally bumped it and shut the latch, since it wasn't quite the first time that had happened anyway, but about halfway up the stairs, he heard shuffling from his kitchen.

Sunshine trilled and chirped, fluttering her wings furiously and slamming her tiny body against the side of her cage to rattle it again. A warning. Malcolm set his jaw, narrowing his eyes.

Oh, he was ready for a fight. He was _beyond_ ready for a fight. Taking a deep breath and clenching his fists as tightly as he could without piercing his own skin with his fingernails, the man made his way further up the stairs, peering out toward the kitchen to see who the hell had dared to come into his apartment and lock his bird up. But every ounce of anger and adrenaline and the urge to fight vanished at once upon catching a glimpse of a familiar figure, familiar brown hair, and hearing the familiar humming coming from the kitchen as the woman at the counter swayed back and forth and rhythmically scrubbing one of his cups clean.

(All things considered, he'd have preferred a house invader.)

He hesitated on the stairs for a moment, shifting back and forth on his feet, and huffed out a silent sigh and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling before daring to walk up the rest of the stairs, not bothering to be careful now that announcing his presence, while he wasn't exactly _thrilled_ to, won't put him in danger. He loved his mother more than life itself and he'd die for her if he had to, but with everything that had come up - being fired from the FBI (which he knew she was going to be absolutely ecstatic about, dammit), the copycat killer, working with the NYPD…

Malcolm sighed, furrowing his eyebrows, and put on his most convincing smile as he reached the top of the stairs, sparing an apologetic look toward Sunshine before venturing forward. "Hello, Mother," he called out, and Jessica spun around to face him at once, eyes lighting up.

"Malcolm!"

"I'm sorry I didn't call," Malcolm began, moving closer. "I was-"

" _Henry_ told me you were fired," Jessica interrupted, and Malcolm blinked, startled, then narrowed his eyes. _Mouthy little bitch_. Oh, he was so gonna get it later for that. "Hallelujah! Now you can finally be done with this morose _profiling_ nonsense." Jessica chuckled, turning away to rinse the cup out, and Malcolm rolled his eyes as soon as she wasn't looking. Yes, he was well aware of what his mother thought about his job. And while he was also aware it all came from a place of caring, he couldn't help but feel somewhat frustrated with her regardless. But she'd never understand his reasoning for it - especially not considering why he really joined the NYPD and the FBI in the first place. Malcolm sighed, watching her pick up a tea kettle, and shrugged.

"Yes," he replied, crossing one leg over the other and leaning his weight against one of the chairs at the counter. "I'll no longer be dragging our family's _sterling_ name through the mud."

"Oh, _hush_ ," Jessica chided, and the unspoken, _as if_ _ **he**_ _hadn't already_ rang loud and clear. Malcolm didn't say anything, shrugging again as his mother turned back to him, and managed to muster a bright smile as she looked back at him before looking down to pour some of the tea into the cup, putting the tea kettle down with a smile. "So! Your loft," she began - not a good sign - and Malcolm stiffened slightly as he remembered a choice few things he had around his apartment that he'd much rather his mother not find. "I had Luisa change out your sheets-" Oh, no, no, no, no, his _bed?_ Malcolm whipped his head around, only further alarmed and dismayed as Jessica continued, "and wipe down your cuffs. Oh! And I called your old therapist, Doctor-"

"Mother-!" Malcolm caught himself, not quickly enough, but he still couldn't help but feel somewhat relieved when Jessica fell quiet anyway, raising her eyebrows at him in concern. The man took a deep breath, forcing himself to relax again, and tried to stifle the anger rapidly brewing in his gut. This was his mother. His mother. He loved her, and he'd always love her - what he didn't love was her helicopter parent-yness and the fact that she'd been snooping around his apartment, his things. "Mother…" He began again. "It is _lovely_ to see you, but I-"

Jessica gave him a _look_ , _the_ look, and told him firmly but gently, "I know you're not sleeping."

Malcolm froze, blinked, and pursed his lips. Dammit. Well, he definitely wasn't getting out of this now. Worried mama bear had caught scent of something and she wasn't going to stop hunting. So, with a resigned sigh as Jessica pointed toward the chair, Malcolm slid a step back, pulled the chair out, and sat down heavily, letting his legs dangle and looking up at her expectantly.

Jessica offered a soft smile and set the cup down in front of him. Malcolm spared it a glance, but ultimately he wasn't too interested in it. "Chamomile should help," his mother advised.

 _I doubt it,_ Malcolm didn't dare to say, _but I'm sure the melatonin you slipped into it might._

"And if it doesn't…" _Oh no._ Jessica grinned at him, eyes practically sparkling now, and whipped out her pill case. "I have pills!" Exasperated, Malcolm shot her a disbelieving look - after all these years, did she really think he'd go for it now? - while his mother only laughed and stepped closer, dumping some of the pills onto the counter. " _Relax_ , they're practically over-the-counter! I have anxiety meds, mood stabilizers…" On and on. Malcolm ducked his head to his chest and squeezed his eyes shut, shaking his head to himself while Jessica sorted through the pills. And she worried about _him_. "Some Quaaludes stashed from the eighties… but I'd rather not share those unless it's really an emergency," she added thoughtfully, then chuckled while Malcolm lifted his head again, fixing her with a defeated stare. "Or at _least_ a very good cocktail party."

Malcolm raised his eyebrows and pulled his lips into the most genuine smile he could muster, but he wasn't sure it was very convincing. His eyes strayed to her hand somewhat absentmindedly, noting her subtle, almost imperceptible tremor with a faint flicker of concern. "I applaud your maternal instincts, but I'm afraid pills alone will not fix what is wrong with us."

Jessica snorted. "If you take enough, they will!"

"How I've missed our talks," Malcolm muttered, and sighed. "Once again, I appreciate it, Mother, but no thank you." He'd very much so rather not harm his body with those… _toxins._ Pills. _Drugs_. Anxiety meds was one thing, but he certainly didn't need them. And he didn't need anything to help him sleep, either - it wasn't getting to sleep that was the problem. It was staying asleep through the nightmares and night terrors that plagued him, _that_ was where the trouble began.

"Fine," Jessica sighed, scooping her pills back up into the case, much to his satisfaction. "Oh! I'm having your sister and cousin over for a petite soiree tomorrow night, be a dear and join."

Malcolm hummed, not agreement nor disagreement, then tilted his head and spared his mother a somewhat curious look. "I'm assuming you don't break into Henry's place like this?" He questioned after a moment as Jessica grabbed her purse and stuffed the pill case away again.

" _God_ no," she laughed, stepping around the counter to plant a kiss on his forehead. "He's perfect. You and Ainsley are my only concerns." She spun around without waiting for a response, striding toward the stairs, and Malcolm let out a quiet huff in response. _Perfect._ Right, Henry was perfect - he and Ainsley were the basket cases. He rolled his eyes a little despite himself, once again fixing his gaze on the cup, and raised an eyebrow when Jessica turned to call back to him in a sing-song voice as she gathered her things, "and try the tea, it'll help!"

"Oh yeah?" Malcolm turned his head, finally looking toward her. "What's it laced with?"

Jessica froze for a second, then tugged her lips upwards into a grin and winked at him. "Love."

Despite himself, he couldn't help but smile as she departed, heels clicking as she walked down the stairs. He only relaxed when he heard the door shut behind her, tipping his head back to look up at the ceiling for a moment and shaking his head. Boy, he was going to be _busy_ now. The case, dinner with his family, and he still planned on going to visit Martin - which he'd have to be pretty sneaky about. Ainsley and Henry knew, but they were the only two. Even Jessica didn't know that Malcolm had still regularly visited his father in Claremont. Dani and JT knew he kept in touch - they knew more than Jessica and Gil did, but they still didn't know everything.

He had to be careful. Just because he didn't have to keep his father's secrets anymore didn't mean that he didn't have to keep his own - because he had plenty secrets of his own to hold to.

But in the meantime…

"Let's get to work," he mumbled, dumping the tea out and moving over to open Sunshine's cage. She flew out to land on his shoulder as he headed up to his study, running his fingers through his hair and curling his lips back into a slow smile. He'd definitely have to visit Martin soon, too.

After all, serial killer versus copycat… maybe he could be of some help.


	4. Chapter 4

Malcolm had a long night ahead of him.

He stayed up with Sunshine for a few hours, researching cases he'd researched before, looking through journals he'd looked through before… his baby bird ended up getting tired and retreating to her cage a little earlier, but not before offering his ear lobe an affectionate nibble and butting her head against his cheek (and Malcolm was skilled enough, fluent enough, in his girl's language, to recognize a quick and simple 'you go to bed soon' warning). And at first, he did plan on it; he stayed up an extra hour or so before reluctantly beginning to pack his things up to retreat to his bed for the night. But a familiar journal caught his eye, letters printed on the cover in a bright, glittering gold, tucked away in a box with all the stuff he'd brought from DC.

He hesitated, mulling it over for a while, before reaching in to grab it and retreating to his bed to read. Reclining back under the covers, legs drawn up so the book rested against his knees, tilted so he could read it in his position, he gazed at the 'MW' on the journal before opening it.

 _When you see your victim's blood  
_ _for the first time, it's exhilarating.  
_ _Like touching down in Oz,  
_ _everything's suddenly in color._

The man closed his eyes for a second, visions of bloodstains - on trees, on grass, on his own clothes - flooding his mind. Then he opened them, the world a blur for a moment, before that vision was quickly replaced by a pool of blood against a sparkling wood floor, glittering, reflecting the candlelight. A bloodstain on the wall, a streak leading down to a man with a bullethole in his chest. A gun in his own hands, anger pulsing through his veins, blood boiling-

The corners of his lips curved upwards. He flipped the page.

 _It's a rush like you can't imagine.  
_ _Better than any drug you'll take.  
_ _Nothing will ever be as personal  
_ _or as intimate as looking into  
_ _someone's eyes and knowing  
_ _you hold their life in your own hands._

Malcolm gazed at the page for a moment, silently scanning the words for a long time before shaking his head and snapping the book shut with a sigh. Well, it wasn't like he was wrong.

Once again, though, it wasn't the words that he focused on too much now, it was the writing.

He'd seen his father's handwriting personally so many times. Handwritten notes sent to his high school teachers. Love letters from Martin to Jessica that they left for each other under vases or stuck to the fridge or pinned to the mantle. Things he used to compare to the writing in the journal all the time. It was _close_ , but not close enough. There was just something… different.

And he wasn't about to let that go.

After all, the Devil was in the details - and Malcolm was determined to find them all.

* * *

The next morning, he was up bright and early and ready for the day. Maybe he was a little later than intended showing up to the precinct, but he was certainly not going to miss breakfast. He'd intended on riding with Henry and Ainsley to Claremont, but he'd decided against it for the time being, especially considering he was late eating breakfast and getting ready for the day as it was. He had all the time in the world to visit his father, and as eager as he was, he'd waited five years for this - he could wait a little bit longer. He was more eager to get to the precinct for now and tell the team what he'd put together; so, after forcing Henry and Ainsley to promise not to tell Martin a _thing_ , he hitched a ride to the precinct, excited to get back to work and solve this copycat case. He had a preliminary profile ready, so he was in a good mood when he came in.

He stalled just long enough, in the doorway, however, to listen to the conversation inside when he heard his father being mentioned, curious as a female's voice reached his ears, tinged with excitement and awe, "-I've only ever read about the Surgeon's methods in textbooks! To see them carried out in person is a real thrill." He blinked a few times, grinning to himself, and turned his head slightly to listen as she went on, "so, three victims. Based on the tox report, each one was injected with a different cocktail of paralytic agents that shut their bodies down one system at a time." There was a moment of silence, a pause, and then, "it must have been agony…"

Malcolm chuckled to himself, then took a deep breath and took that as his sign to enter. "It was," he called out, walking into the room and reaching up to adjust his suit. He grabbed a pair of gloves on his way, and flashed the woman he assumed had been speaking - since she was the only woman in the room besides Dani - a bright smile as he approached. "I imagine, anyway." The woman gave him a curious look while Gil rolled his eyes, looking amused. Dani raised her eyebrows as Malcolm turned back to them, with a toothy grin. "I have a preliminary profile."

"Damn, kid." Gil quirked an eyebrow. "You sleep at all?"

Malcolm shrugged, coming to a stop near one of the bodies, covered up from the neck down to the feet with a white sheet. "I got six hours… three nights ago, so… yeah, I'm good," he replied somewhat distractedly, pinching the edges of the sheet with his fingers and lifting it up slightly.

"Be honest, did you kill these people so that we'd take you back?" JT called to him.

"Me? No," Malcolm dismissed at once. "If I was going to copy the Surgeon, I'd have chosen a more interesting method. Not that the _Quartet_ wasn't interesting, of course, but it definitely wasn't his best. And if I were to become a serial killer, I wouldn't be a copycat." He fell silent for a moment, flicking his gaze across the body. "This suture work is amazing. These Y incisions…" He tugged his lips into a grin, studying the stitches for a moment. He'd seen a lot of stitched-up bodies in his time, but these sutures were more fascinating to look at than the body itself (which coming from someone like him, who _loved_ inspecting corpses, was definitely saying something). He stared for a moment, curious, then flicked his gaze toward the woman standing across from him on the other side of the body, offering her a crooked grin as she adjusted her glasses and looked back at him somewhat curiously, confusedly. "You're like Picasso with formaldehyde."

In just a second, he watched her expression shift, softening and brightening all at once. "Um, thanks," she managed to respond, laughing a little nervously, somewhat flustered, and Malcolm found himself unable to take his gaze off of her for a second, the grin on his face widening briefly as she adjusted her glasses again and responded hurriedly, "and you're- very slender-"

Malcolm laughed, giving her a fond look. "I get a lot of exercise. Name's Malcolm."

"Great name," she breathed, and blinked, shaking her head. "Um, uh- Dr. Tanaka. _Ms._ Dr. Tanaka. Or just Edrisa. Call me that." Edrisa paused, breathed in, and blurted out, "I'm single."

Oh, this woman definitely had his attention. They'd just met, and she was already intriguing him spectacularly. "Good to know." He curled his lips back in a grin, but he was quick to snap his attention back to the others when Gil cleared his throat, giving him an expectant look.

"Whitly, profile?"

Edrisa blinked, eyes widening, and stammered, "Whitly-?"

After studying her expression intently and finding absolutely nothing but shock, surprise and a little bit of awe, Malcolm winked at her, and carefully smoothed the sheet back down over the body. JT and Dani exchanged a look, looking amused. "Yes, Whitly. Malcolm Whitly. I'm also single," he offered with a smirk, then turned away again and headed to the next body, circling around slowly. "As for you, Arroyo… you only want me for my profiling skills…" He sighed, sparing the man a mockingly dejected look, but he turned back to his task quickly enough. "First, our suspect is a serial killer superfan. Probably white male - big surprise." He rolled his eyes to himself and went on, "average size, average height, and smart. He's also a high-functioning psychopath - he can pass for sane." He managed a smirk. "Kind of like me."

Edrisa managed to laugh. She was the only one, though JT and Dani did smirk, while the former rolled his eyes and rubbed a hand over his face, feigning an exasperated expression that Gil didn't have to fake, sparing him a _look_ while Dani commented aloud, "sounds like my ex."

Malcolm snorted, and smirked. "He's also inadequate."

" _Definitely_ Khalil," Dani declared, and JT huffed out a laugh.

"He can't craft his own murders…" Malcolm paused, finally shifting his gaze to the body, and frowned, staring blankly at the wrist for a moment. Bruises, just like Vanessa… he narrowed his eyes as he went on, "so he mimics the Surgeon. His victims are white, over forty, and wealthy."

He pulled back, dropping the sheet, and moved onto the next one.

"They're also strangers," Gil cut in, narrowing his eyes slightly. "Nothing connects them."

"Except for these," Malcolm muttered, lifting the sheet up. Sure enough, the same bruises. Faded, old, but he couldn't tell how old. He could tell, however, that they weren't the kind of bruises that came from handcuffs - if he had to take a guess, he'd say bondage rope. Quarter-inch thick Japanese-style bondage rope. He was familiar. "All three victims have the same bruising on their wrists." He shifted, lifting the arm up to show them. "Which doesn't match the Surgeon's methods. And before you ask, no, they're not from handcuffs, these are rope bruises. Quarter-inch thick Japanese-style bondage rope bruises. Simple… but effective."

"Exactly!" Edrisa exclaimed, and Malcolm couldn't keep the grin off his face as he lowered the arm back down, covering it back up. "And also, these bruises don't match the time of death. They're from earlier - three days, at least? So the women were all restrained, but not…"

"On the night that they were murdered," Malcolm finished thoughtfully.

Dani nodded, crossing one leg over the other. "They're closet BDSM freaks."

"Like Malcolm?" JT asked at once, and burst into laughter when Dani turned and smacked his arm. Malcolm only blinked, staring at them, unable to fight the heat that rose to his cheeks.

(He also noticed Edrisa turning red, but he wasn't going to comment on that either.)

Gil sighed, tilting his head back. "Didn't need to know that."

"It's not _true,_ " Malcolm defended with a glare in JT's direction, while the man only continued laughing, covering his mouth to try to stifle it. Dani smacked his shoulder again, but she was still grinning even so, clearly trying to stifle her own laughter. Malcolm shook his head, taking a deep breath to compose himself, and looked back down at the bodies. Closet BDSM freaks. He definitely wasn't a closet BDSM freak. Bondage… dominance… submission… masochism… "A dom," he whispered, mostly to himself. "Vanessa wasn't waiting for a lover. She was waiting for a dom. A professional dominant." It did change things a little in terms of how she died, of course - she _was_ expecting him, her dropping her glass had been a product of the attack when he'd-

"He was seeing all three of them," Gil recognized, narrowing his eyes slightly.

"If he's a pro, that means they paid him," Dani added, blowing her hair out of her face and curling her lips upwards into a grin, "which means we can track their bank records."

"Which means we just found our guy," Malcolm agreed, smirking.

"Amazing," Edrisa whispered, and Malcolm laughed.

Amazing, indeed.

* * *

"Why can't I have a gun again?" Malcolm huffed, hurrying after JT and Dani as they headed down a hallway, checking doors as they went. JT's gun was clasped securely in his hands, and Dani still had her own in her holster, but her hand hadn't left it since they entered the building. The knowing looks the two of them exchanged briefly brought a smirk to his face, but it melted quickly when JT turned to shoot him a stern look before they spun around and kept walking.

"Because of what happened the last time I gave you a gun."

Malcolm grunted. "Asshole deserved it."

"Right," JT agreed. "All I'm saying is one murder on your conscience is enough."

One murder. Right. Malcolm's lips twitched slightly, but he didn't respond to that. He slowed to a stop when they did, as Dani slipped past him and approached one of the doors. "Nico Stavros, he lives in apartment 5J. Each victim sent him a payment in the last month." She paused at the door, and Malcolm took a few steps forward, stretching up on his toes to peer through the peephole. He couldn't see much from the outside in, of course, but he didn't see any lights through the cracks. He frowned, rocking back on his feet thoughtfully for a moment, then stepped away from them and shifted to pull his phone out, trying to remember the number in the file. He'd only scanned it briefly before they left, more interested in getting going than anything.

"Gil said he's pulling a warrant," JT sighed, turning back to them.

"Fuck that." Dani finally pulled her gun out, only to smash the handle into the doorknob, just as Malcolm finished typing the number in. He hit call just as the doorknob dropped, hitting the floor with a rather loud _clang_ , and kicked it down the hallway when it rolled close to his feet.

The phone rang twice from inside and then went silent. Malcolm smirked. "He's home." Without waiting for either of them to jump into action, he spun around and kicked the door open himself. But he let them run in first, tucking his phone away only to pull out the flashlight he'd been given, and flicked it on as he followed them inside, shining it ahead of them for a moment. He almost paused at what he saw; almost everything in the apartment was wrapped. From books on shelves to couches and tables, tarps hanging down from the ceiling in random places. Everything was wrapped in plastic. Malcolm would have been scared if he wasn't so _fascinated_.

"Clear!"

"Clear!"

"Clear," Malcolm called back, flicking the flashlight to the side, and blinked. He moved the light slowly across a table, tools and syringes and needles scattered across it, and widened his eyes. It was the only 'unwrapped' part of the room. Surgical tools, chemicals, electronics… Malcolm ventured forward, absolutely intrigued by the sight, while the other two came up behind him.

JT exhaled sharply, staring down. "What the hell…?"

"He's building electronics," Malcolm breathed, flicking the flashlight across again. "Compounding his own drugs… he's more than a copycat." A slow grin spread across his face. "I was _wrong…_ "

A muffled sound, like a whimper, a _scream_ , tore him from his thoughts, and he was quick to whirl around toward the sound, alarmed. JT and Dani turned as well, guns aimed, but they found themselves facing one of the tarps. Malcolm took a step forward, straining his ears now to listen. Another muffled sound. A grunt. He recognized that, actually, he recognized that sound. That was the sound of someone who'd been gagged - no, not gagged. That was duct tape. There was a distinct difference, and Malcolm certainly knew how to differentiate the two. He'd been silenced in nearly every way imaginable - save for having his mouth sewn shut, but…

They made their way forward slowly, cautious. Malcolm kept the flashlight centered on the tarp while Dani approached it, raising her gun, and ripped it down. As expected, a man was on the other side, bound to a chair, mouth taped shut. Malcolm frowned, and furrowed his eyebrows.

"Shit," JT mumbled, rushing forward. While he and Dani fussed over the man, Malcolm picked his way forward slowly, noticing how his eyes darted past them, looking around the room anxiously. Their killer was still here, that much was obvious. He scowled, pinching his eyebrows further together and turning his head to look around the part of the room they'd just uncovered. He stepped forward, tense, ready - and he saw a blur, a shadow, and then heard gunshots.

JT and Dani dropped to the ground at once, telling "get down!" and "shots!" respectively. Malcolm stayed on his feet, but he went completely still, body flinching from the sound, and lifted his hands to his ears. Dani was the first to scramble back to her feet when the gunshots stopped, aiming her gun in the direction they'd come from, before whipping her head around to look back at the other three while JT stood back up. "We good? Everyone okay? Malcolm?" Malcolm only nodded, meeting her gaze for a second, while JT groaned out a soft 'yeah'. Dani took a breath, whirling around, and growled. "Stay- stay in here, I got him." She took off without waiting for a response, and while every part of Malcolm ached to follow after her, he didn't.

"Come on, man, help me out here," JT urged, and Malcolm dropped the flashlight and headed over, circling around the chair for a moment, inspecting the man carefully, looking for the end of the duct tape wrapped around his mouth. He ripped it off almost immediately once he found it.

The man screamed and gasped, throwing his head back. " _FUCK!"_

"Why did Nico do this to you?" Malcolm demanded, glancing him over while JT got down on the floor to inspect the cuffs keeping the man bound to the chair. "Are you one of his clients?"

"I'm not a _client_ , man, _I'm_ Nico!" The man yelled, and Malcolm blinked, startled, and frowned. "He made me call them, set up dates-! He's a _psycho_ , man!" Well, then the whole Vanessa-not-expecting-her-killer suddenly made a whole lot of sense. Malcolm opened his mouth, taking a deep breath, and scowled. Well, this definitely just got more interesting.

"Who did this to you?" He pressed.

"I don't know, I didn't see his face!" Nico groaned. "I've been locked in this chair for days, man, _get me out!"_

"Okay, okay," Malcolm huffed, frustrated, but he was quick to comply, getting down on his knees on the other side of the chair. It became apparent _very_ quickly that they were going to have a bit of trouble getting Nico out of this chair, for many reasons. One being he was locked in, and Malcolm honestly didn't think, of all the serial killers he'd seen, and all the serial killers he'd been kidnapped and held captive by, that he'd ever seen something so intricate before. Definitely a pickable lock, but one that would take at least thirty minutes, if not more. Then a flashing, beeping light from behind the chair caught his attention, and when he got down to look, craning his neck to look behind and under to see where it was coming from, he froze.

"JT," he breathed.

JT grunted, getting down to look at once, and despite how dark it was, Malcolm could see his face pale just the slightest bit as his eyes focused on what Malcolm was looking at.

Very clearly a bomb, reading _1:30._

"Oh, man," JT breathed, "that ain't good."

And then it started counting down.

"No kidding," Malcolm managed to force out.

"What?" Nico jerked at the restraints, rocking the chair a little. "What? What is it?!"

"It's a bomb," Malcolm replied immediately, scrambling to get up. "And you're locked to it, and the chair's locked to the ground." He ignored the ' _what?!'_ from Nico as the man immediately broke down into hysterics - understandable, but distracting - and spun around to look around the room, frantically searching for something, anything, that could help them out of this mess-

"We need to get one hand free," JT hissed, getting back up on his knees. Malcolm jumped to his feet, grabbing the flashlight. "Get me something - a screwdriver, I can pick the lock."

"There's not enough time," Malcolm growled, making his way back to the table with the tools regardless. Maybe there was something there. his eyes wandered, trailing across, searching the tools - and his gaze froze on an axe resting near the corner of the table. He stared at it somewhat blankly for a moment, wordlessly trailing his gaze across the blade. _One hand free._ His shoulders twitched, fumbling with the flashlight, remembering the sight of blood splattering, the feeling of a blade cutting through skin and bone, the absolute thrill of disconnecting a hand from an arm, sawing through without- he shook his head. "JT, kitchen!" He yelled over his shoulder, grabbing for the axe and abandoning the flashlight. "Get ice! Get _lots_ of ice!"

JT didn't ask questions. Good.

"What's happening?!" Nico screamed, panicking. Understandable.

"I'm gonna chop off your hand," Malcolm breathed, sounding startlingly calm despite the adrenaline coursing through his veins, and spun around, rushing back to the chair.

Nico blinked, panic and fear vanishing from his face in an instant, replaced with shock. "What."

Malcolm laughed despite himself, then got right down to business. He stilled for a second, then drew back and slammed his foot into the chair, kicking it off of the ground and sending it crashing back. Nico screamed as it went, letting out a grunt as he hit the floor, and Malcolm turned his attention completely to his hand, flicking his gaze across the man's arm carefully.

His stomach twisted. Excitement.

The beeping of the timer on the bomb was deafening.

"There's really no other option," he managed. "But reattachment surgery's come a long way."

He wondered, for a second, what it would feel like. What it felt like. A quick, fleeting thought. He imagined it would hurt like all hell. But what would it be like to have your hand removed and then reattached? Would it feel the same? Would it work the same? It was a fascinating thought.

But he needed to focus. Now or never.

JT rushed in from the kitchen with a cooler of ice, and froze. "Whitly- _WHITLY, WAIT-"_

"Not a gun," Malcolm commented without looking, leveling the axe with Nico's hand, lining it up.

He took a breath - "deep breaths," he warned, "this is gonna hurt." - and swung down.

* * *

Sirens whirred.

Malcolm stumbled out of the building, JT and Nico up ahead as JT practically carried Nico bridal-style past them, yelling for an ambulance. Dani ran up to him as Gil, who had pulled up in his car, immediately jumped out, looking torn for a second before he headed after JT and Nico.

Dani got to Malcolm. Her hands grabbed his shoulders, catching him when he stumbled, and then found his face. "Whitly- Malcolm, _Malcolm,_ are you okay?" He didn't answer, couldn't. Every part of him was lit ablaze with adrenaline, heart pounding faster than he thought it ever had. He remembered the explosion - he'd seen bombs go off before, but never up close and personal like that had been. It was exhilarating, _terrifying_. He took a breath, heart pounding faster, while Dani's grip on his face tightened as she forced him to look at her. " _Are you okay?!"_

Malcolm blinked, trying to focus, and wheezed out a laugh. "Definitely not!"

Dani searched his gaze, her pupils merely pinpricks. Malcolm's, however, were blown wide.

He blinked at her again, focusing a little but still not quite all there yet, then looked down. He was holding a cooler. A cooler filled with ice and- oh! Right. "Oh," he managed, staring down for a second, then huffed out a shaky laugh and looked back up, wavering a little as he detangled himself from her grip. "I, uh- I gotta-" Another laugh, "I gotta, um. I gotta go give them a _hand."_

Without waiting for a response, he stumbled past her.


	5. Chapter 5

"So!" Malcolm paced in front of the board, staring at the writing and photos clipped to it. His gaze kept trailing toward the picture of the severed hand, excitement bubbling in his chest every time his eyes landed on it. "So our, uh… our killer's motive is revenge," he added distractedly. He couldn't stop thinking about it. The feeling, the sight of the axe slicing through skin and bone. The blood, the screams. It reminded him of way back when - but also not, because Malcolm hadn't chopped John's hand clean off in an _almost_ perfect cut like the hand in the picture pinned to the board. No, he'd severed it slow and steady, enjoying every second, while he screamed-

"Yo, Whitly?" JT's voice cut into his thoughts, the memories playing side by side. He shook his head at himself, forcing himself to focus, and turned to face them. "Are we gonna talk about-"

"No," Malcolm replied sharply, though he grinned back at his friend for a moment before looking away again, back toward Gil. Silent, waiting, watching. He was surprised the man hadn't said anything to him yet, about what he'd done. But he was expecting it to come up sooner or later. "Our killer has to inflict as much pain as humanly possible." He turned away again, looking back toward the board, and curled his lips into a grin. "That's why he's copying the Surgeon's _Quartet._ It was an experiment to find the most agonizing way to kill someone." He narrowed his eyes slightly, blue eyes scanning the board, and lifted his eyebrows slightly. He remembered when Martin had explained it to him, showing him the pages in his journal, reading along with him.

"That's motive," Gil snapped him from his thoughts. "What else?"

"He's white, forty, maybe fifty. I'm thinking late forties," Malcolm declared, turning back to face them again. "Rich, likely bald, and a romantic…" His words faltered for a second, eyes darting down to his phone for a second when his ringtone went off. Henry. Malcolm stared for a moment, then moved forward and tapped the decline button. Right, he was late for dinner.

(He could spare a few more minutes.)

"Go back," Dani began, and Malcolm looked up. "How do you know he's bald?" He couldn't help but grin despite himself, studying the challenge in her eyes. Playful, teasing. She wasn't challenging him like the Sheriff, not _doubting_ him - she was genuinely curious. After all, they'd known each other for seventeen years now. She of all people knew what he was capable of. Judging by the way JT rolled his eyes and sank back in his seat a little, he knew just as well.

"So glad you asked!" Malcolm clasped his hands together and spun toward the board again, only to turn back after a moment. He didn't actually have proof for that. But he did have an idea. "Okay, well, I don't _know_. _But_ , his psychology implies dysmorphia. He hates his own body. Yet, we saw an imposing man at Nico's, so I'm thinking bald." He paused, taking a breath when his phone buzzed, and silently dropped his gaze back to it as he reached down to pick it up again. He narrowed his eyes, swiping down to see the text - of course, sent to him from Henry Whitly…

**Tell the NYPD I wish them luck on investigating your murder!**

Malcolm smirked, not replying. "I have to go." He tucked his phone away and ran his fingers through his hair, stepping around the desk. "If I'm not back in three hours, my mother killed me."

"We'll mourn you," Gil muttered, taking another sip of his coffee, and Malcolm couldn't bite back a grin in time as he passed the man, grabbing his suit jacket from the back of Dani's chair. He shrugged it on, looking down to check himself over, and took a deep breath. This was going to be fun. Him, his mother, his sister, and his cousin all in the same place. And who knows what Ainsley had heard already - who knows what Henry knew. Malcolm still wasn't looking forward to having to explain his… ah… _activities_ to Jessica, but at this point it just seemed inevitable.

"No you won't."

Gil shrugged, setting his cup down. "But it's nice to hear, isn't it?"

Malcolm shook his head and spared him a smirk, adjusting his cuffs. "Your lies? Hardly."

"Lies?" Gil offered him an offended look while JT and Dani exchanged a _look_. "It's not a lie."

"Isn't it?" Malcolm pouted, making his way toward the door. It didn't take long for JT to start laughing, and while Dani did her best to mask it, Malcolm was too perceptive to miss the smirk that tugged at the corners of her lips. "Besides, you didn't deny it when I said you wouldn't-"

"Kid," Gil huffed out a laugh. "Get to your Mom's before I have to investigate _your_ murder."

"Fine!" Malcolm opened the door without looking. "I'll just go then!"

"Fine," Gil replied smoothly, lips twitching.

"Fine!"

" _Fine!"_

JT and Dani were rolling by the time Malcolm finally ducked out of the room.

And on his way out, he heard Gil finally break, the unmistakable sound of his laughter reaching his ears just as he got to the door. He smiled slightly, ducking his head, and left the precinct.

* * *

"So, Malcolm!"

Malcolm took a bite of his food, glaring at Henry from the corner of his eye for a moment, then swept his gaze toward his mother as he swallowed and put on the brightest smile he could muster. Dinner with the family… god, he hadn't sat with them for dinner in five years. And now that he was here, with the usual, palpable Whitly Tension hanging in the air, he was reminded why he never called to make plans with them or come back to join them for a meal or two. He loved his family, adored each and every one of them, of course he did - but he'd rather stab his own eyes out with a fork than have to sit through a meal with all three of them. Especially now.

"I lunched with the Egyptian Ambassador last week," his mother continued happily, and Malcolm raised his eyebrows slightly, sparing her a curious look in response, while his mother grinned and picked up her wine glass, taking a sip. "He has a lovely daughter - a bit curvy, but acceptable," she added with a thoughtful hum, and Malcolm raised his eyebrows and managed a distracted smile in response. "Maybe you could ask her out." Great, and now she was trying to set him up. Truthfully, the thought of taking _anyone_ out on a date at the moment caused his mind to immediately turn in Edrisa's direction. He'd already come to the conclusion that she was the one he currently wanted to get to know - she fascinated him in almost every way imaginable. Of course, that being said, romance wasn't his thing either. He'd never been in a relationship.

"Ooh, curvy but acceptable?" Henry cut in with a grin, leaning forward across the table for a second before sitting back to continue eating. Malcolm fell silent, spooning another bite into his mouth while his adoptive brother nudged his shoulder against his. "I'd take it, Malcolm. This chick might be the only one you'll get with that Ma would agree with," he whispered, snickering.

"Hush," Jessica chided, but she was grinning. "We do not say 'chick', Henry. We say 'woman'."

"Yeah, _Henry_ ," Malcolm mocked.

"No fighting," Jessica warned. She then turned her gaze to Ainsley, who was typing away on her phone, and raised her eyebrows slightly. Malcolm flicked his gaze up, focusing on his younger sister for a moment. "Ainsley," their mother called, and the youngest snapped her head up at once, immediately snapping her gaze toward Jessica, and managed to look somewhat sheepish while the woman curled her lips into a brief, amused grin. "Am I keeping you from something?"

"Not at all, Mom," Ainsley responded sweetly, setting her phone down. "Ah… Egypt, right?"

Malcolm exchanged a glance with Henry, while Jessica sighed. "What are you not telling me?" When Ainsley pursed her lips and refused to answer, her gaze went to them. "Henry, spill."

Ainsley shot the man in question a warning glare. Henry hid a smirk with his glass. "Murder."

Jessica blinked, startled, and looked back at Ainsley. "Another one?"

"And also Malcolm's working with the NYPD again."

" _What?"_

"Oh, okay, wow." Malcolm shot his cousin a scathing look. "First of all-"

"Don't you watch my reports?" Ainsley cut him off, turning a curious look on their mother.

" _Usually_ , but-" Jessica shook her head a little, looking somewhat overwhelmed. Malcolm set his spoon down and huffed out a sigh as he sank back in his seat again, shooting Ainsley a strained, knowing smile while Jessica's gaze flitted back and forth between them. "Ainsley, I thought you agreed not to take this one- and _you_ ," their mother added, turning a sharp look on Malcolm, who offered the most innocent look he could muster. " _Two days_ back in the city and you're already back to this. I thought you were done with all this murder business!" Malcolm ducked his head, silent, and Jessica raised her voice slightly. "I have moved on from your-"

"Father," Malcolm interrupted a little sharper than he meant to. The anger was quick, abrupt; it filled him up to every crevice, every vein. "Have you ever stopped to think this isn't _about_ him?"

"Isn't it?" Jessica challenged, meeting his gaze evenly.

"I haven't seen the man in ten years, what do you want from me?"

"I want you to live a _life!"_

"I _am!"_

" _This_ isn't _living, this is_ _ **obsession**_ _!"_

Across from Malcolm, Ainsley scoffed into her glass, "who's the one _obsessing_ about this?"

Immediately, it was like someone had hit mute on the Whitlys. Jessica's head turned in Ainsley's direction so fast Malcolm thought it might give her whiplash, and Henry froze from beside him, shock flitting across his face as he looked from Ainsley, to Jessica, to Malcolm and then back at Ainsley. The silence stretched on as the youngest lifted her gaze, blue eyes briefly meeting Malcolm's before she looked back at Jessica; seeing the somewhat hurt expression on his mother's face made the man's stomach twist _slightly,_ but he still couldn't stifle the pride that welled up in his chest when Ainsley set her glass down, turned to face Jessica, and continued, "serial killer or not, Mother-" She rarely called Jessica 'Mother' unless it was serious, and Malcolm saw the immediate effect it had on the woman, the grimace that flashed across her face, "he _is_ our father. But that doesn't mean everything related to us goes right back to him."

Jessica didn't say anything. Henry ran his hand over his face, rubbing his mouth, then put his fork down and sat back. Ainsley glanced around the table once more before doing the same.

"I'm taking this as my cue to leave." She pushed herself up.

"Ainsley…" Jessica began, dismayed. Malcolm nudged his plate away.

"Me, as well." He scooted his chair back, pushing himself up and sparing a glance toward Henry, catching the briefly guilty look that flashed across his face. While he wasn't particularly upset with _him_ \- he'd known it was going to come up sooner or later, and he was well aware that it was going to be loud and explosive and that someone's feelings were going to get hurt tonight. So he didn't completely blame his adoptive brother - but he was going to hold him accountable for the fact that he'd spilled everything a little too soon, before Malcolm had really had the chance to prepare himself for what he knew was inevitable. But even so, he made sure to clasp his hand over his shoulder as he eased his way around the table, and Ainsley met him by the door, holding it open for him as he turned back. "Give my compliments to Luisa, Mother."

Jessica took a breath and sighed, closing her eyes, and nodded. "Very well."

He met his sister in the hall, the door shut tight behind him, and shared a quick glance with her as they headed to the front door. "I don't know what's worse," Ainsley admitted after a moment, narrowing her eyes ahead and tilting her head to the side while Malcolm stepped forward and pulled the door open, holding it for her to walk through. "The fact that she immediately thinks we built our lives around Dad and that everything we do can be traced right back to him, or the fact that this time…" She arched an eyebrow, glancing at him over her shoulder. "She's not wrong."

Malcolm shut the door behind him and fell into step with her, shrugging. "Well, I figured it'd be best to leave that particular part out. She's mad enough about it without dumping the whole Surgeon copycat thing on her." He rolled his eyes, sighing. "Boy, this is a tangled, tangled web."

Ainsley raised her eyebrows and puffed her cheeks out. "When are you gonna see him?"

Malcolm looked up at the sky for a moment.

He didn't have anywhere else to be.

"Now."

* * *

Claremont was exactly the same as Malcolm remembered. He'd always thought there was something so beautifully haunting about it; he'd paced and read and researched for hours on end looking for the right place. He certainly wasn't going to let his father rot in prison. He'd paid for the place himself, paid to have Martin moved somewhere where he wasn't in danger, where he could rest easy, where Malcolm could visit him away from judgeful eyes and prying ears. Claremont had stood out to him above everything else, and it hadn't taken long for him to make his decision. His father had been given a cushy room, as much space as he needed for his things; bookshelves, a desk, a comfortable bed. Whatever he needed, Malcolm had supplied. The cell, he couldn't get past Jessica - but he, Ainsley and Henry had worked together for everything else, and so far Malcolm was sure they'd managed to keep it all on the down-low.

Beside him, Mr. David led him forward, although he didn't really need to show Malcolm the way to the cell he'd visited several times on his own. Malcolm had picked out his father's guard himself, and Henry and Ainsley had taken over his payments. Malcolm trusted the gentle giant significantly more than he'd trust anyone else to handle his father; they'd grown rather close to each other, the man had noticed, during the past ten years. Malcolm wasn't sure where their relationship lied now, but it didn't seem like much of anything had changed. "Been a while," Mr. David commented, sparing him a glance. "Nice to see you back here. Your dad will be stoked."

"I know." Malcolm offered a grin, looking ahead. He did know. Considering how they'd left things… he was more than ready to face his father again. More than ready to pick it back up.

"We've got him leashed. Do you want him cuffed this time?"

"God, no." Malcolm huffed out a laugh despite himself. "It wasn't _that_ bad."

Mr. David raised an eyebrow and sighed, but he didn't say anything more. Malcolm couldn't quell the rush of excitement that stirred in his gut as they finally approached the door, and the guard moved past him, pressing the button to unlock it. The familiar buzzer went off, a sound that had practically been permanently ingrained into his mind. Malcolm stepped forward, _left, right, left, right_ while Mr. David pushed the door open and called in, "Martin, you've got a visitor."

His father looked up from his desk, almost exactly the same as he'd looked five years ago.

Malcolm couldn't suppress a grin as he entered. Martin's eyes went wide.

"You two play nice," Mr. David warned. The door shut behind Malcolm.

Martin stared at him for a moment, his expression frighteningly blank. Then, all at once, he lit up; like a kid on Christmas, his father's face brightened, the emotionless expression immediately replaced with excitement as he made his way to his feet. Malcolm's grin widened slightly, taking a few steps forward while Martin pressed forward at the same time, pacing toward the red line that separated them until the leash connecting him to the far wall forbade him from going an inch further. "Malcolm," he breathed softly, ecstatic, warm, loving, "my _boy_."

Malcolm huffed out a laugh and immediately walked forward, confident strides bringing him closer to the line, to his father. Martin opened his arms up at once as he approached, and Malcolm wasted no time in enveloping the man in a hug, folding his arms around his father and squeezing tightly. Martin did the same, holding him close for a moment, and Malcolm briefly buried his face into his shoulder, against the familiar, warm fabric of his cardigan and inhaled as much of his familiar scent as he could. Martin held on for a few seconds longer, clutching handfuls of Malcolm's suit jacket in his fists, before the younger of the two finally pulled back, disconnecting them but staying close enough that Martin's hands could remain on his shoulders, fingers curling into the lapels of his jacket. "Father," he greeted warmly, "it's great to see you."

"Five years," Martin chuckled, blue eyes filled with nothing but warmth, gentleness, as he searched the younger man's gaze. There was a moment of silence, a flicker of curiosity crossing his father's face, and his smile melted into a frown. "Your eyes… you look exhausted."

"Yet you look fresh as a daisy," Malcolm teased. It was true, Martin looked great, considering the circumstances. He looked like he'd tacked on a few pounds - which was _very_ much so a good thing, and Malcolm was beyond happy to see it. The food here was less than desirable, but Malcolm was also aware that his sister and adoptive brother had probably carried on the tradition of bringing Martin their own home-cooked meals whenever they had the chance (Malcolm much preferred bringing him food from fast food restaurants such as Burger King or McDonalds; not exactly the kind of stuff _he'd_ eat, but Martin enjoyed it). "Funny how that works."

"Well…" Martin began, smirking, "I haven't seen your mother in ten years."

Malcolm couldn't help but laugh, tilting his head with a grin. "And I just left the mansion."

"No _wonder_ you look so tired," Martin commented good-naturedly, pulling back. Malcolm stepped forward after a moment, joining him on his side of the line. "Have you been sleeping?"

"Ah, who needs sleep?" Malcolm mused, brushing past him. He stepped over the leash and made his way toward Martin's bed instead, plopping down casually with a hum and kicking his feet up. Martin offered him an amused but concerned look as headed over to his desk, pulling his chair out a bit and turning it around so he could sit facing Malcolm. "Don't _worry_ , I'm good." He swept his gaze around the room, eventually laying back and crossing his arms under his head, and returned his eyes to his father curiously. "Much more interested in how _you're_ doing."

"Oh, you know… the usual." Martin waved a hand somewhat dismissively, returning it to his lap after a moment and offering him a half-smile. "Mr. David and your sister are great company. And Henry, of course, but he doesn't come by as often anymore." Martin fell silent for a moment while Malcolm just nodded, leaning his head back and looking up at the ceiling. "... listen, abo-"

"We don't need to talk about it."

"Of course we do," Martin protested, somewhat appalled. "I never properly apologized." Malcolm only sighed, rolling his head in his direction again and fixing him with a silent stare, eyebrows raising. His father shifted uncomfortably in his seat for a moment. "You know, for my… outburst."

"More like a meltdown," Malcolm responded distractedly, studying his father for a moment longer before turning his gaze away again, rooting it to the ceiling once more instead. "And like I said, I'm good. You didn't react in any way I wasn't mentally prepared for, at least. My mistake was being the bearer of bad news while getting comfy on your side of the line." He let his eyes fall shut for a moment, eyebrows pulling down slightly, before his expression fell slack again. "Besides, it's no secret that you're not the only Whitly with a history of violent ' _outbursts'_."

"Right." Martin heaved out a gentle sigh and went back to studying him. "Have you…?"

"Not in eight years," Malcolm murmured. The corner of his mouth twitched, tugging upwards for just a second, but he did his best to remove the memory of a gun in his hand - finger around a trigger, blood on the wall, body on the floor - from his mind. He blinked his eyes open again. "Well, not a particularly bad one. I did punch a Sheriff a few days ago, and I chopped a man's hand off today. But I did save his life in the process," he added, glancing back toward his father. "But I haven't had an _outburst_ since… what's-his-name. Not that that wasn't justified, so can it really be considered an outburst? Whatever. Actually, I just remembered I wanted to tell you…"

"Hold on, hold on." Martin held his hands up, a baffled expression on his face now, as Malcolm pushed himself to sit up and scooted to lean back against the wall. "You chopped off a man's-"

"Hand, yes," Malcolm interrupted, grinning. "With an axe."

Martin stared at him for a moment, intrigued, then grinned. "Was it a clean cut?"

"The cleanest!" Malcolm paused, pursing his lips. "Okay, maybe not the cleanest, but clean enough that they probably reattached it in the hospital no problem. It's fine! He was fine the last time I saw him, anyways. _Right_ after the building we just came out of exploded. So, listen-"

"Okay hold on you keep brushing past these details what do you mean the building you-"

"Hey Surgeon," Malcolm cut him off, "you have a copycat."

Martin startled, staring at him for a moment. Malcolm took in every little detail, every little emotion that flashed across his face in the span of just a few short seconds. There was surprise, there was confusion, there was a _startling_ amount of horror and fear (and Malcolm was going to hold on for that for as long as he needed to) before a blank expression passed across Martin's face instead, replaced immediately with a grin that didn't reach his eyes. "Really? Well…" Martin paused, and pressed on, "well, I'm, uh- flattered! _Very_ flattered, yes. Indeed."

He most certainly wasn't flattered. He was anxious, on edge. "He's copying the _Quartet_."

"The _Quartet_ ," Martin echoed appreciatively, not meeting his gaze. "Wise choice…"

"Three women have died."

Martin flinched. His eyes darted toward his bookshelf, seemingly frozen solid, another flicker of horror passing across his face before it quickly melted into anxiety, and then… concern.

If Malcolm didn't know any better…

He thought back to the journal. The handwriting. The girl in the box. To all the questions left unanswered, all the things Martin wouldn't tell him, even now, when it shouldn't even matter. Now, when his biggest secret had been brought to light. He still had them. He still had things he wasn't telling him, telling _anyone_. He still knew something - and Malcolm needed to know what. The man sank back, regarding his father silently, carefully, and hummed. "You know something."

Martin looked like a deer in headlights for a second, gazing back at him, then shook his head. "Uh… no. No, of course not, my boy."

"No?" Malcolm glanced him over, narrowing his eyes slightly.

A prickle of apprehension wormed its way up his spine, cold and fast and nauseating.

He ignored it.

"You're lying to me."

"I'm not!" Martin pushed himself up. Malcolm blinked a few times, mostly in an effort to repress the instinctive flinch his body offered. Although it wasn't visible, he definitely felt the effect such a thing had on him, and it was enough to stir up a rush of irritation in his chest. It was his father, for crying out loud. He wasn't afraid of his father. "Malcolm, I swear, I've got nothing to do with-"

"Maybe not," Malcolm interrupted, keeping his voice level, "but you know who does."

Martin stared at him for a moment. Wide-eyed, trapped, scared.

(And Malcolm wondered, for a second - _did_ he know any better?)

Malcolm took a deep breath, steadying himself.

His father's case had somehow just gotten a lot more interesting.

And so had this copycat.


End file.
